f,  /f 


DAVID  HARUM 
A  Story  of  American  Life 


"I  told  ye  he'd  stand  'ithout  hitchin'." 

(See  page  24.) 


DAVID! 
H  A  R  U  MI 

^ # 

A  Story 
of  American  Life 


BY 
I   EDWARD    NOYES    WESTCOTT    j[ 

ILLUSTRATED    BY 

B.  WEST  CLINEDINST 

WITH   A  FEW  TEXT  DRAWINGS  BY  C.  D.  FARRAND 


D.  APPLETON  &  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS    NEW   YORK 


Copyright,  1898, 1900,  by 
D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


All  rights  in  this  book,  including  the  rights  of  dramatization,  recitation, 
translation,  and  the  publication  of  extracts,  are  strictly  reserved. 


INTRODUCTION    TO   THE 
ILLUSTRATED  EDITION 


THE  interest  which  is  always  felt  in  the  life  and  per- 
sonality of  the  writer  of  a  successful  book  originates,  it 
would  seem,  in  the  sympathetic  and  kindly  desire  of  his 
readers  for  a  more  intimate  acquaintance  with  him  than 
they  can  attain  through  the  medium  of  his  fictitious 
characters.  This  is  surely  not  mere  curiosity,  but 
rather  an  expression  of  genuine  affection,  and  therefore 
the  few  lines  of  biography  which  appeared  with  the 
earlier  editions  of  this  book  may  now  quite  properly  be 
somewhat  extended,  since  the  author  has  achieved  a 
great,  though  unhappily  a  posthumous,  fame. 

For  it  may  reasonably  be  doubted  if  any  work  of 
American  fiction  has  ever  had  such  a  wide-spread  and  in- 
stantaneous success  as  David  Harum.  As  these  lines 
are  being  written  the  report  comes  that  the  number  of 
copies  issued  during  the  twenty  months  that  have  passed 
since  its  publication  is  but  a  few  short  of  half  a  million. 
Editions  of  it  have  appeared  in  England,  Australia, 
and  Canada,  and  negotiations  are  now  in  progress  for 
the  publication  of  a  German  translation.  It  has  been 
the  theme  for  many  poems  and  parodies ;  the  text  for 
homilies  ;  the  inspiration  for  the  cartoonist ;  the  source 


INTRODUCTION   TO   THE 

of  the  orator's  wit ;  and  an  astrologer  has  asked  in  all 
seriousness  for  full  details  of  the  history  of  the  book  and 
its  author,  so  that  he  may  cast  the  horoscopes  of  novels 
yet  unpublished,  and  thereby  foretell  success  or  failure. 

Many  people,  hitherto  quite  unknown,  have  unblush- 
ingly  set  forth  their  claims  to  be  the  "originals"  of 
one  or  another  character  of  the  book  ;  and  while  these 
foolish  attempts  to  acquire  a  little  unearned  importance 
are  more  absurd  than  serious,  yet  it  may  not  be  out  of 
place  here  to  state  that  all  such  claims  are  absolutely 
without  foundation.  The  characters  are  all  drawn  from 
life,  it  is  true,  in  the  sense  that  they  are  lifelike,  but 
not  from  individuals.  Each  one  is  entirely  the  creation 
of  the  author's  imagination,  and  this  fact  he  asserted 
with  much  earnestness,  over  and  over  again.  "I  should 
not  dare  put  real  people,  just  as  I  see  them,  into  my 
book,"  he  once  characteristically  said  ;  "they'd  spoil  it." 

The  author  of  David  Harum  was  born  in  Syracuse, 
New  York,  September  27,  1846,  and  died  there  of  pul- 
monary consumption,  March  31, 1898,  in  his  fifty-second 
year.  He  was  married  in  1874  to  Jane  Dows  of  Buf- 
falo, and  she,  dying  in  1890,  left  three  children,  Harold, 
Violet,  and  Philip.  His  father  was  Doctor  Amos  West- 
cott,  once  one  of  the  conspicuous  citizens  of  Syracuse, 
and  during  part  of  the  Civil  War  its  mayor. 

Edward  was  educated  in  the  public  schools  of  the 
city,  finishing  with  the  High  School  when  about  six- 
teen. Even  at  that  age  he  had  clearly  developed  the 
temperament  and  mind  of  the  student.  But  instead  of 
continuing  his  studies  in  college,  as  he  greatly  desired 
to  do,  he  found  it  necessary  to  enter  at  once  upon  a 
business  career.  It  is,  of  course,  quite  futile  now  to 
imagine  what  other  results  would  have  followed  had 


ILLUSTRATED   EDITION 

he  been  allowed  to  pursue  Ms  inclination  in  this  matter  ; 
but  it  is  certain  that  the  discipline  of  a  university 
training,  and  particularly  the  stimulating  effect  of  in- 
tellectual competition  and  the  necessary  mental  con- 
centration, would  have  produced  a  great  and  valuable 
impression  upon  his  sensitive,  artistic  temperament, 
For  if  ever  a  man  was  endowed  too  richly,  it  was  the 
author  of  David  Haruin.  Besides  being  a  novelist 
and  a  man  of  business,  he  was  a  musician,  a  painter,  a 
poet,  and  a  conversationalist  of  conspicuous  powers. 
He  did  well  all  that  he  undertook,  but  because  he  could 
do  so  many  things  easily  he  did  not  often  feel  impelled 
to  concentrate  his  efforts  upon  one  thing.  It  was  not 
until  his  long  and  fatal  illness  took  from  him  the  power 
thus  variously  to  occupy  himself  that  he  began  the 
work  that  has  made  him  famous. 

Being  deprived  by  circumstances  of  the  education  he 
longed  for  he  became  his  own  teacher;  and  in  this 
his  inherent  good  taste,  receptive  mind,  and  retentive 
memory  enabled  him  to  select  and  rapidly  acquire  a 
great  store  of  useful  and  ready  knowledge.  Through- 
out his  life  he  was  a  voluminous  reader ;  and  while  fic- 
tion and  poetry  were  his  favorite  branches  of  literature, 
yet  his  tastes  were  catholic  enough  to  cover  all  the 
sciences,  and  he  was  particularly  interested  in  ques- 
tions of  finance.  The  drudgery  and  monotony  of  a 
commercial  life  were  always  very  irksome  to  him,  but 
being  compelled  to  disregard  his  tastes,  he  did  so  com- 
pletely. His  active  years  were  wholly  devoted  to  busi- 
ness, in  which  he  started  as  a  junior  clerk  in  the 
Mechanics'  Bank  of  Syracuse.  Then  followed  two  years 
in  the  New  York  office  of  the  Mutual  Life  Insurance 
Company ;  after  which,  returning  to  Syracuse,  he 


INTRODUCTION    TO   THE 

again  became  a  junior  bank  clerk,  then  teller,  and  then 
cashier.  About  1880  he  founded  the  firm  of  Westcott 
and  Abbott,  bankers  and  brokers ;  and  when  this  part- 
nership was  dissolved  he  became  the  registrar  and 
financial  expert  of  the  Syracuse  Water  Commission, 
which  was  at  that  time  installing  a  new  and  costly 
system  of  water-supply  throughout  the  city.  Over 
three  million  dollars  passed  through  his  hands  in  the 
execution  of  this  work  ;  and  his  management  of  these 
great  financial  interests  was  distinguished  by  absolute 
fidelity  and  accuracy. 

In  personal  appearance  Mr.  Westcott  was  tall,  slen- 
der, and  graceful ;  and  his  handsome,  intellectual  face 
would  light  up  in  greeting  a  friend  with  a  smile  that 
was  extremely  attractive  and  magnetic.  It  was  un- 
doubtedly in  music  that  he  found  his  greatest  pleasure  ; 
for  though  in  business  hours  he  always  subordinated 
the  artistic  side  of  his  nature  to  the  requirements  of  the 
moment,  yet  these  duties  being  ended  for  the  day,  he 
let  the  other  talents  appear.  He  was  endowed  with  a 
fine  barytone  voice,  and  having  received  most  excellent 
professional  training,  he  became  a  conspicuous  figure  in 
the  musical  circles  of  central  New  York.  His  knowl- 
edge of  music  as  well  as  his  acquaintance  with  bank- 
ing have  benefited  the  readers  of  David  Harum  ;  for  in 
describing  the  trials  of  a  church  choir  director,  and  the 
methods  of  a  country  bank,  the  author  has  clearly  drawn 
upon  his  memory  for  his  facts.  He  possessed  also  a 
considerable  talent  for  musical  composition,  and  several 
songs,  of  which  he  wrote  not  only  the  words  and  air, 
but  the  harmony  as  well,  have  been  published,  and 
sung  by  those  who  may  never  know  the  author's  name. 

Those  who  knew  Mr.  Westcott  in  the  years  when  he 
was  an  intellectual  leader  in  his  native  city — and  his 


ILLUSTRATED   EDITION 

house  was  a  center  for  musical  and  artistic  men  and 
women — may  still  recall  some  of  his  wise  and  witty 
sayings.  Yet,  with  all  his  quickness  and  keenness,  he 
never  intentionally  uttered  a  word  that  hurt,  and  his 
fine  courtesy  was  invariably  a  most  conspicuous  part 
of  his  bearing.  The  genial  humor  which  he  has  so 
successfully  infused  into  his  book  was  actually  his  own, 
and  was  constantly  exhibited  in  every-day  affairs. 

'It  was  not  until  he  retired  from  all  business  occupa- 
tions because  of  the  collapse  of  his  health  and  the  cer- 
tain knowledge  that  he  could  not  recover,  that  Mr. 
Westcott  seriously  thought  of  doing  any  literary  work 
for  publication.  He  had  written  much  in  the  past,  and 
doubtless  realized  that  he  possessed  unusual  literary 
powers ;  but,  with  the  exception  of  a  series  of  letters 
upon  financial  and  political  topics,  very  little  had  ever 
reached  the  public.  At  the  outset  his  chief  hope  was 
not  to  win  fame  or  reward, — these,  indeed,  he  seemed 
not  to  think  of, — but  rather  to  find  an  occupation  that 
should  busy  his  mind  and  hands.  "I  have  been  so 
closely  tied  to  a  routine  all  my  life,"  he  once  said,  "that, 
now  I  am  free,  I  find  I  have  lost  all  power  of  self-em- 
ployment." The  failure  of  his  voice  about  this  time, 
which  was  due  to  the  progress  of  his  disease,  caused 
him  the  greatest  distress,  and,  more  than  anything, 
impressed  him  with  the  seriousness  of  his  condition. 

Little  by  little,  however,  he  grew  accustomed  to  the 
changed  conditions  of  his  life  ;  the  artistic  side  was  now 
having  a  chance  to  develop  along  an  unobstructed  path  ; 
the  limitations  which  his  failing  health  placed  upon 
him  were  combining  his  efforts  in  one  or  two  direc- 
tions, instead  of  the  five  or  six  along  which  he  had  pre- 
viously allowed  his  talents  to  stray  ;  and  presently  he 
had  made  a  tentative  start  on  David  Harum.  This 


INTRODUCTION   TO   THE 

was  in  the  summer  of  1895,  while  he  was  living  at  Lake 
Meacham  in  the  Adirondacks,  where  he  had  gone  in  the 
vain  hope  that  the  climate  would  stay  the  progress  of 
his  disease. 

The  first  work  thus  done  by  him  produced  what  are 
now  substantially  Chapters  XIX-XXIV  ;  that  is,  the 
scenes  between  David,  John,  and  the  Widow  Cullom, 
and  the  Christmas  dinner  that  follows  them  ;  and  these 
pages  constitute  the  nucleus  about  which  the  others 
were  eventually  assembled.  When  the  author  returned 
to  Syracuse  late  in  the  fall  of  1895,  he  diffidently  showed 
his  work  to  some  of  his  friends,  and  was  urged  by  them 
to  complete  it.  He  really  needed  little  urging,  for  he 
had  already  become  interested  in  his  characters,  and  as 
he  went  on  he  found  the  work  becoming  a  real  pleasure. 

His  method  of  composition  was  first  to  prepare  a  rough 
sketch  or  outline  of  a  chapter  with  a  lead-pencil  on  ordi- 
nary copy  paper.  He  was  unable  to  use  a  pen  freely,  as 
he  suffered  from  scrivener's  palsy.  These  notes  being 
finished,  he  rewrote  them  on  a  type-writer,  enlarging 
or  deleting  as  he  went  along ;  and  this  work  was  again 
revised  or  reconstructed  until  the  author  was  satisfied. 
In  most  cases  the  chapters  were  completed  in  their 
present  order,  the  exceptions  being  those  just  men- 
tioned (XIX-XXIV),  and  those  which  are  now 
Chapters  I  and  II,  these  being  written  last  of  all  and 
prefixed  to  the  story  as  it  then  stood,  in  order  to  intro- 
duce David  and  Aunt  Polly  to  the  reader  at  the  very 
beginning.  In  all  the  author  occupied  about  fifteen 
months  of  actual  time  in  writing  his  book,  though  a 
somewhat  greater  interval  than  this  elapsed  between 
the  start  and  the  finish,  since  there  were  often  days, 
and  even  weeks,  together  when  he  was  unable  to  write 


ILLUSTRATED   EDITION 

a  line  because  of  his  physical  prostration.  Often,  too,  he 
would  become  discouraged  as  to  the  value  of  his  labors, 
a  discouragement  his  friends  laughed  out  of  him ;  yet 
in  the  main  his  progress  was  steady,  and  the  story  was 
completed  about  the  end  of  1896. 

The  question  has  been  asked,  Did  not  Mr.  Westcott 
leave  his  book  unfinished  ?  No  ;  every  line  and  word  of 
the  story  are  his  own,  and  two  complete  type-written 
copies  of  it  were  made  by  his  own  hand  nearly  a  year 
before  his  death.  Even  in  this  mechanical  part  of  the 
work  his  lifelong  habits  of  neatness  and  accuracy  were 
conspicuous,  and  it  is  doubtful  if  "cleaner  copy  "  were 
ever  given  to  the  printer. 

The  book  was  read  and  recommended  by  Mr.  Kipley 
Hitchcock,  and  accepted  by  D.  Appleton  &  Co.  early 
in  January,  1898 ;  and  the  cordial  words  of  com- 
mendation which  were  then  sent  to  the  author  by  Mr. 
Hitchcock  were  "more  welcome,"  so  he  said,  "than  any 
gift  I  could  have  received."  His  health  actually  rallied 
a  little  at  this  time  in  response  to  the  mental  exhilara- 
tion, but  only  temporarily,  and  never  sufficiently  to 
permit  him  to  leave  his  bed.  He  was  able  to  conduct 
the  preliminary  business  negotiations  himself,  however  ; 
but  he  died  without  knowing,  and  perhaps  without 
suspecting,  the  extraordinary  welcome  that  was  to  be 
given  his  book.  Yet  when  we  read  in  Chapter  XLVII 
his  own  words,  "Many  of  the  disappointments  of  life, 
if  not  the  greater  part,  come  because  events  are  un- 
punctual.  They  have  a  way  of  arriving  sometimes  too 
early,  or  worse,  too  late,"  their  prophetic  significance 
is  now  profoundly  impressive. 

FORBES  HEEKMANS. 

SYRACUSE,  N.  Y.,  August  2,  1900. 


Author  of  David  Harum. 


INTRODUCTION   TO    THE 
FIRST  EDITION 


The's  as  much  human  nature  in  some  folks  as  th'  is  in  others, 
if  not  more.  —  DAVID  HARUM. 


ONE  of  the  most  conspicuous  characteristics  of  our  con- 
temporary native  fiction  is  an  increasing  tendency  to 
subordinate  plot  or  story  to  the  bold  and  realistic  por- 
trayal of  some  of  the  types  of  American  life  and  man- 
ners. And  the  reason  for  this  is  not  far  to  seek.  The 
extraordinary  mixing  of  races  which  has  been  going  on 
here  for  more  than  a  century  has  produced  an  enor- 
mously diversified  human  result ;  and  the  products  of 
this  "hybridization"  have  been  still  further  differen- 
tiated by  an  environment  that  ranges  from  the  Ever- 
glades of  Florida  to  the  glaciers  of  Alaska.  The 
existence  of  these  conditions,  and  the  great  literary 
opportunities  which  they  contain,  American  writers 
long  ago  perceived  5  and,  with  a  generally  true  apprecia- 
tion of  artistic  values,  they  have  created  from  them  a 
gallery  of  brilliant  genre  pictures  which  to-day  stand 
for  the  highest  we  have  yet  attained  in  the  art  of  fiction. 
Thus  it  is  that  we  have  (to  mention  but  a  few)  studies 
of  Louisiana  and  her  people  by  Mr.  Cable  ;  of  Virginia 
and  Georgia  by  Thomas  Nelson  Page  and  Joel  Chandler 
Harris  ;  of  New  England  by  Miss  Jewett  and  Miss  Wil- 
kins ;  of  the  Middle  West  by  Miss  French  (Octave 
Thanet)  ;  of  the  great  Northwest  by  Hamlin  Garland  ; 
of  Canada  and  the  land  of  the  habitans  by  Gilbert 
Parker  ;  and  finally,  though  really  first  in  point  of  time, 


INTRODUCTION   TO   THE 

the  Forty-niners  and  their  successors  by  Bret  Harte. 
This  list  might  be  indefinitely  extended,  for  it  is  grow- 
ing daily,  but  it  is  long  enough  as  it  stands  to  show  that 
every  section  of  our  country  has,  or  soon  will  have,  its 
own  painter  and  historian,  whose  works  will  live  and 
become  a  permanent  part  of  our  literature  in  just  the 
degree  that  they  are  artistically  true.  Some  of  these 
writers  have  already  produced  many  books,  while  others 
have  gained  general  recognition  and  even  fame  by  the 
vividness  and  power  of  a  single  study,  like  Mr.  Howe 
with  "The  Story  of  a  Country  Town."  But  each  one, 
it  will  be  noticed,  has  chosen  for  his  field  of  work  that 
part  of  our  country  wherein  he  passed  the  early  and 
formative  years  of  his  life— a  natural  selection  that  is, 
perhaps,  an  unconscious  affirmation  of  David  Harum's 
aphorism  :  "Ev'ry  hoss  c'n  do  a  thing  better  'n'  spryer 
if  he's  ben  broke  to  it  as  a  colt." 

In  the  case  of  the  present  volume  the  conditions  are 
identical  with  those  just  mentioned.  Most  of  the  scenes 
are  laid  in  central  New  York,  where  the  author,  Ed- 
ward Noyes  Westcott,  was  born,  September  27,  1846, 
and  where  he  died  of  consumption,  March  31,  1898. 
Nearly  all  his  life  was  passed  in  his  native  city  of  Syra- 
cuse, and  although  banking,  and  not  authorship,  was 
the  occupation  of  his  active  years,  yet  his  sensitive  and 
impressionable  temperament  had  become  so  saturated 
with  the  local  atmosphere,  and  his  retentive  memory  so 
charged  with  facts,  that  when  at  length  he  took  up  the 
pen  he  was  able  to  create  in  David  Harum  a  character 
so  original,  so  true,  and  so  strong,  yet  withal  so  delight- 
fully quaint  and  humorous,  that  we  are  at  once  com- 
pelled to  admit  that  here  is  a  new  and  permanent 
addition  to  the  long  list  of  American  literary  portraits. 


FIRST   EDITION 

The  book  is  a  novel,  and  throughout  it  runs  a  love 
story  which  is  characterized  by  sympathetic  treatment 
and  a  constantly  increasing  interest ;  but  the  title  role 
is  taken  by  the  old  country  banker,  David  Harum  :  dry, 
quaint,  somewhat  illiterate,  no  doubt,  but  possessing  an 
amazing  amount  of  knowledge  not  found  in  printed 
books,  and  holding  fast  to  the  cheerful  belief  that  there 
is  nothing  wholly  bad  or  useless  in  this  world ;  or,  in 
his  own  words :  "A  reasonable  amount  of  fleas  is  good 
fer  a  dog — they  keep  him  f  m  broodin'  on  bein'  a  dog." 
This  horse-trading  country  banker  and  reputed  Shylock, 
but  real  philanthropist,  is  an  accurate  portrayal  of  a 
type  that  still  exists  in  the  rural  districts  of  central 
New  York.  Variations  of  him  may  be  seen  daily,  driv- 
ing about  in  their  road  wagons  or  seated  in  their  "bank 
parlors  " — shrewd,  sharp-tongued,  honest  as  the  sunlight 
from  most  points  of  view,  but  in  a  horse  trade  much 
inclined  to  follow  the  rule  laid  down  by  Mr.  Harum 
himself  for  such  transactions  :  "Do  unto  the  other  feller 
the  way  he'd  like  to  do  unto  you— an'  do  it  fust." 

The  genial  humor  and  sunny  atmosphere  which  per- 
vade these  pages  are  in  dramatic  contrast  with  the  cir- 
cumstances under  which  they  were  written.  The  book 
was  finished  while  the  author  lay  upon  his  deathbed, 
but,  happily  for  the  reader,  no  trace  of  his  sufferings 
appears  here.  It  was  not  granted  that  he  should  live 
to  see  his  work  in  its  present  completed  form,  a  con- 
summation he  most  earnestly  desired  ;  but  it  seems  not 
unreasonable  to  hope  that  the  result  of  his  labors  will 
be  appreciated,  and  that  David  Harum  will  endure. 

FORBES  HEERMANS. 

SYRACUSE,  N.  Y.,  August  20,  1898. 


LIST  OF  FULL-PAGE  ILLUSTRATIONS 


"I  told  ye  he'd  stand  'ithout  hitchin'"        .         Frontispiece 

Portrait  of  Edward  N.  Westeott xiii 

The  exit  of  Bill  Montaig 143 

' '  Mis'  Cullom,  I  want  to  tell  ye  a  little  story  "  .         .         .  182 
"  We  sneaked  up  the  aisle ".         .        .        .        .        .        .233 

"You  look  f'm  behind  like  a  red-headed  snappin'  bug"     .  261 

"  Back  she  come,  lickity  cut  " 283 

'She  made  a  grab  at  the  lines"  .         .              •  ..       .        .  288 

"An'  flung  it  slap  in  my  face"   .         .        .        .        .        .  349 


DAVID  HARUM 
A  Story  of  American  Life 


r*. 


DAVID  HAEUM 


CHAPTER   I 


D 


,AVID  poured 
half  of  his  second 
cup  of  tea  into  his 
saucer  to  lower  its 
temperature  to  the 
drinking-point,  and 
helped  himself  to  a 
second  cut  of  ham  and 
a  third  egg.  What- 
ever was  on  his  mind  to  have  kept  him  unusually 
silent  during  the  evening  meal,  and  to  cause  certain 
wrinkles  in  his  forehead  suggestive  of  perplexity  or 
misgiving,  had  not  impaired  his  appetite.  David  was 
what  he  called  "a  good  feeder." 

Mrs.  Bixbee,  known  to  most  of  those  who  enjoyed  the 
privilege  of  her  acquaintance  as  "Aunt  Polly,"  though 
nieces  and  nephews  of  her  blood  there  were  none  in 
Homeville,  Freeland  County,  looked  curiously  at  her 
brother,  as,  in  fact,  she  had  done  at  intervals  during  the 
repast ;  and  concluding  at  last  that  further  forbearance 
was  uncalled  for,  relieved  the  pressure  of  her  curiosity 
thus: 

"Guess  ye  got  somethin'  on  your  mind,  hain't  ye? 
2 


4  DAVID   HARUM 

You  hain't  hardly  said  aye,  yes,  ner  no  sence  you  set 
down.  Anythin'  gone  'skew  !  " 

David  lifted  his  saucer,  gave  the  contents  a  precau- 
tionary blow,  and  emptied  it  with  sundry  windy  sus- 
pirations. 

"No,"  he  said,  "nothin'  hain't  gone  exac'ly  wrong,  's 
ye  might  say— not  yet;  but  I  done  that  thing  I  was 
tellin'  ye  of  ter-day." 

"Done  what  thing?  "  she  asked  perplexedly.     . 

"I  telegraphed  terNew  York,"  he  replied,  "fer  that 
young  feller  to  come  on— the  young  man  Gen'ral  Wolsey 
wrote  me  about.  I  got  a  letter  from  him  to-day,  an'  I 
made  up  my  mind  l  the  sooner  the  quicker,'  an'  I  tele- 
graphed him  to  come  's  soon  's  he  could." 

"I  fergit  what  you  said  his  name  was,"  said  Aunt 
Polly. 

"There's  his  letter,"  said  David,  handing  it  across  the 
table.  "Kead  it  out  'loud." 

"You  read  it,"  she  said,  passing  it  back  after  a  search 
in  her  pocket ;  "I  must  'a'  left  my  specs  in  the  settih'- 
room." 

The  letter  was  as  follows  : 

DEAR  SIR:  I  take  the  liberty  of  addressing  you  at  the 
instance  of  General  Wolsey,  who  spoke  to  me  of  the  mat- 
ter of  your  communication  to  him,  and  was  kind  enough 
to  say  that  he  would  write  you  in  my  behalf.  My  ac- 
quaintance with  him  has  been  in  the  nature  of  a  social 
rather  than  a  business  one,  and  I  fancy  that  he  can  only 
recommend  me  on  general  grounds.  I  will  say,  therefore, 
that  I  have  had  some  experience  with  accounts,  but  not 
much  practice  in  them  for  nearly  three  years.  Neverthe- 
less, unless  the  work  you  wish  done  is  of  an  intricate 
nature,  I  think  I  shall  be  able  to  accomplish  it  with  such 


DAVID   HARUM  5 

posting  at  the  outset  as  most  strangers  would  require. 
General  Wolsey  told  me  that  you  wanted  some  one  as 
soon  as  possible.  I  have  nothing  to  prevent  me  from 
starting  at  once  if  you  desire  to  have  me.  A  telegram 
addressed  to  me  at  the  office  of  the  Trust  Company  will 
reach  me  promptly.  Yours  very  truly, 

JOHN  K.  LENOX. 

"Wa'al,"  said  David,  looking  over  his  glasses  at  his 
sister,  "what  do  you  think  on't?" 

"The'  ain't  much  brag  in't,"  she  replied  thoughtfully. 

"No,"  said  David,  putting  his  eye-glasses  back  in 
their  case,  "th'  ain't  no  brag  ner  no  promises ;  he  don't 
even  say  he'll  do  his  best,  like  most  fellers  would.  He 
seems  to  have  took  it  fer  granted  that  I'll  take  it  fer 
granted,  an'  that's  what  I  like  about  it.  Wa'al,"  he 
added,  "the  thing's  done,  an'  I'll  be  lookin'  fer  him  to- 
morrow morniii',  or  eveniu'  at  latest." 

Mrs.  Bixbee  sat  for  a  moment  with  her  large,  light 
blue  and  rather  prominent  eyes  fixed  on  her  brother's 
face,  and  then  she  said,  with  a  slight  undertone  of  anxi- 
ety, "Was  you  cal'latin'  to  have  that  young  man  from 
New  York  come  here  ?  " 

"I  hadn't  no  such  idee,"  he  replied,  with  a  slight 
smile,  aware  of  what  was  passing  in  her  mind.  "What 
put  that  in  your  head  ?  " 

"Wa'al,"  she  answered,  "you  know  the'  ain't  scarcely 
anybody  in  the  village  thet  takes  boarders  in  the  win- 
ter, an'  I  was  wonderin'  what  he  would  do." 

"I  s'pose  he'll  go  to  the  Eagle,"  said  David.  "I 
dunno  where  else,  'nless  it's  to  the  Lake  House." 

"The  Eagil ! "  she  exclaimed  contemptuously.  "Land 
sakes  !  Comin'  here  from  New  York  !  He  won't  stan' 
it  there  a  week." 


6  DAVID   HARUM 

"Wa'al,"  replied  David,  "mebbe  he  will  an'  mebbe 
he  won't,  but  I  don't  see  what  else  the'  is  for  it,  an'  I 
guess  'twon't  kill  him  fer  a  spell.  The  fact  is—"  he  was 
proceeding  when  Mrs.  Bixbee  interrupted  him. 

"I  guess  we'd  better  adjourn  t'  the  settin'-room  an' 
let  Sairy  clear  off  the  tea-things,"  she  said,  rising  and 
going  into  the  kitchen. 

"What  was  you  sayin"?"  she  asked,  as  she  presently 
found  her  brother  in  the  apartment  designated,  and 
seated  herself  with  her  mend- 
ing-basket in  her  lap. 

"The  fact  is,  I  was  sayin'," 
he  resumed,  sitting  with  hand 
and  forearm  resting  on  a 
round  table,  in  the  center  of 
which  was  a  large  kerosene 
lamp,  "that  my  notion  was,  fust  off,  to  have  him  come 
here,  but  when  I  come  to  think  ou't  I  changed  my 
mind.  In  the  fust  place,  except  that  he's  well  recom- 
mended, I  don't  know  no  thin'  about  him ;  an'  in  the 
second,  you  an'  I  are  putty  well  set  in  our  ways,  an' 
git  along  all  right  jest  as  we  be.  I  may  want  the  young 
feller  to  stay,  an'  then  agin  I  may  not — we'll  see.  It's 
a  good  sight  easier  to  git  a  fishhook  in  'n  'tis  to  git  it 
out.  I  expect  he'll  find  it  putty  tough  at  fust,  but  if 
he's  a  feller  that  c'n  be  drove  out  of  bus'nis  by  a  spell 
of  the  Eagle  Tavern,  he  ain't  the  feller  I'm  lookin'  fer — 
though  I  will  allow,"  he  added  with  a  grimace,  "that 
it'll  be  a  putty  hard  test.  But  if  I  want  to  say  to  him, 
after  tryin'  him  a  spell,  that  I  guess  me  an'  him  don't 
seem  likely  to  hitch,  we'll  both  take  it  easier  if  we  ain't 
livin'  in  the  same  house.  I  guess  I'll  take  a  look  at  the 
Trybune,"  said  David,  unfolding  that  paper. 


DAVID    HARUM  7 

Mrs.  Bixbee  went  on  with  her  needlework,  with  an 
occasional  side  glance  at  her  brother,  who  was  immersed 
in  the  gospel  of  his  politics.  Twice  or  thrice  she  opened 
her  lips  as  if  to  address  him,  but  apparently  some  re- 
straining thought  interposed.  Finally  the  impulse  to 
utter  her  mind  culminated.  "Dave,"  she  said,  "d'you 
know  what  Deakin  Perkins  is  sayin'  about  ye  ? " 

David  opened  his  paper  so  as  to  hide  his  face,  and 
the  corners  of  his  mouth  twitched  as  he  asked  in 
return,  "Wa'al,  what's  the  deakin  sayin'  now?" 

"He's  sayin',"  she  replied,  in  a  voice  mixed  of  indig- 
nation and  apprehension,  "thet  you  sold  him  a  balky 
horse,  an'  he's  goin'  to  hev  the  law  on  ye." 

David's  shoulders  shook  behind  the  sheltering  page, 
and  his  mouth  expanded  in  a  grin. 

"Wa'al,"  he  replied  after  a  moment,  lowering  the 
paper  and  looking  gravely  at  his  companion  over  his 
glasses,  "next  to  the  deakin's  religious  experience,  them 
of  lawin'  an'  horse-tradin'  air  his  strongest  p'ints,  an'  he 
works  the  hull  on  'em  to  once  sometimes." 

The  evasiveness  of  this  generality  was  not  lost  on  Mrs. 
Bixbee,  and  she  pressed  the  point  with,  "Did  ye?  an' 
will  he?" 

"Yes,  an'  no,  an'  mebbe,  an'  mebbe  not,"  was  the  cate- 
gorical reply. 

"Wa'al,"  she  answered  with  a  snap,  "mebbe  you  call 
thet  an  answer.  I  s'pose  if  you  don't  want  to  let  on 
you  won't,  but  I  do  believe  you've  ben  play  in'  some 
trick  on  the  deakin,  an'  won't  own  up.  I  do  wish," 
she  added,  "thet  if  you  hed  to  git  rid  of  a  balky 
horse  onto  somebody  you'd  hev  picked  out  somebody 
else." 

"When  you  got  a  balker  to  dispose  of,"  said  David 


8  DAVID   HARUM 

gravely,  "you  can't  alwus  pick  an'  choose.  Fust  come, 
fust  served."  Then  he  went  on  more  seriously  :  "Now 
I'll  tell  ye.  Quite  a  while  ago— in  fact,  not  long  after 
I  come  to  enj'y  the  priv'lidge  of  the  deakin's  acquaint- 
ance— we  hed  a  deal.  I  wa'n't  jest  on  my  guard, 
knowin'  him  to  be  a  deakin  an'  all  that,  an'  he  lied  to 
me  so  splendid  that  I  was  took  in,  clean  over  my  head. 
He  done  me  so  brown  I  was  burnt  in  places,  an'  you  c'd 
smell  smoke  round  me  fer  some  time." 

"Was  it  a  horse?"  asked  Mrs.  Bixbee  gratuitously. 

"  Wa'al,"  David  replied,  "mebbe  it  lied  ben  some  time, 
but  at  that  partic'lar  time  the  only  thing  to  determine 
that  fact  was  that  it  wa'n't  nothin'  else." 

"Wa'al,  I  dejclare  ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Bixbee,  wonder- 
ing not  more  at  the  deacon's  turpitude  than  at  the  lapse 
in  David's  acuteness,  of  which  she  had  an  immense 
opinion,  but  commenting  only  on  the  former.  "I'm 
'mazed  at  the  deakin." 

"Yes'm,"  said  David  with  a  grin,  "I'm  quite  a  liar 
myself  when  it  comes  right  down  to  the  hoss  bus'nis, 
but  the  deakin  c'n  give  me  both  bowers  ev'ry  hand. 
He  done  it  so  slick  that  I  had  to  laugh  when  I  come  to 
think  it  over— an'  I  had  witnesses  to  the  hull  confab, 
too,  that  he  didn't  know  of,  an'  I  c'd  've  showed  him  up 
in  great  shape  if  I'd  had  a  mind  to." 

"Why  didn't  ye?"  said  Aunt  Polly,  whose  feelings 
about  the  deacon  were  undergoing  a  revulsion. 

"Wa'al,  to  tell  ye  the  truth,  I  was  so  completely 
skunked  that  I  hadn't  a  word  to  say.  I  got  rid  o'  the 
thing  fer  what  it  was  wuth  fer  hide  an'  taller,  an'  'stid 
of  squealin'  round  the  way  you  say  he's  doin',  like  a 
stuck  pig,  I  kep'  my  tongue  between  my  teeth  an'  laid 
to  git  even  some  time." 


DAVID   HARUM  9 

"You  ort  to  've  bed  the  law  on  him,"  declared  Mrs. 
Bixbee,  now  fully  converted.  "The  old  scamp  !" 

"Wa'al,"  was  the  reply,  "I  gen'ally  prefer  to  settle 
out  of  court,  an'  in  this  partic'lar  case,  while  I  might 
'a'  ben  willin'  t'  admit  that  I  hed  ben  did  up,  I  didn't 
feel  much  like  swearin'  to  it.  I  reckoned  the  time  'd 
come  when  mebbe  I'd  git  the  laugh  on  the  deakin,  an' 
it  did,  an'  we're  putty  well  settled  now  in  full." 

"You  mean  this  last  pufformance  1 "  asked  Mrs.  Bix- 
bee. "I  wish  you'd  quit  beatin'  about  the  bush,  an'  tell 
me  the  hull  story." 

"Wa'al,  it's  like  this,  then,  if  you  will  hev  it.  I  was 
over  to  Whiteboro  awhile  ago  on  a  little  matter  of 
worldly  bus'nis,  an'  I  seen  a  couple  of  fellers  halter- 
exercisin'  a  hoss  in  the  tavern  yard.  I  stood  round  a 
spell  watchin'  'em,  an'  when  he  come  to  a  stan'still  I 
went  an'  looked  him  over,  an'  I  liked  his  looks  fust-rate. 

"'Fersale?'  I  says. 

"'  Wa'al/  says  the  chap  that  was  leadin'  him,  'I  never 
see  the  hoss  that  wa'n't,  if  the  price  was  right.' 

"'Yourn?'  I  says. 

"'Mine  an'  hisn,'  he  says,  noddin'  his  head  at  the 
other  feller. 

"'What  ye  askin'  fer  him?'  I  says. 

"'One-fifty,'  he  says. 

"I  looked  him  all  over  agin  putty  careful,  an'  once  or 
twice  I  kind  o'  shook  my  head  's  if  I  didn't  quite  like 
what  I  seen,  an'  when  I  got  through  I  sort  o'  half  turned 
away  without  sayin'  anythin',  's  if  I'd  seen  enough. 

"'The'  ain't  a  scratch  ner  a  pimple  on  him,'  says  the 
feller,  kind  o'  resentin'  my  looks.  '  He's  sound  an'  kind, 
an'  '11  stand  without  hitchin',  an'  a  lady  c'u  drive  him.  's 
well  's  a  man.' 


10  DAVID    HARUM 

"'I  ain't  got  anythin'  agin  him/  I  says,  'an'  prob'ly 
that's  all  true,  ev'ry  word  on't ;  but  one-fifty's  a  con- 
sid'able  price  fer  a  hoss  these  days.  I  hain't  no  pressin' 


use  fer  another  hoss,  an',  in  fact/  I  says, '  I've  got  one  or 
two  fer  sale  myself.' 

"'He's  wuth  two  hunderd  jest  as  he  stands/  the  feller 
says.  '  He  hain't  had  no  trainin',  an'  he  c'n  draw  two 
men  in  a  road  wagin  better'n  fifty.' 

"Wa'al,  the  more  I  looked  at  him  the  better  I  liked 
him,  but  I  only  says,  '  Jes'  so,  jes'  so,  he  may  be  wuth 
the  money,  but  jest  as  I'm  fixed  now  he  ain't  wuth  it  to 
me,  an'  I  hain't  got  that  much  money  with  me  if  he 
was/  I  says. 

"The  other  feller  hadn't  said  nothin'  up  to  that  time, 
an'  he  broke  in  now  :  'I  s'pose  you'd  take  him  fer  a  gift, 
wouldn't  ye?'  he  says,  kind  o'  sneeriu'. 

"'Wa'al,  yes/  I  says,  'I  dunno  but  I  would  if  you'd 
throw  in  a  pound  o'  tea  an'  a  halter.' 


DAVID   HARUM  11 

"He  kind  o'  laughed,  an'  says,  'Wa'al,  this  ain't  no 
gift  enterprise,  an'  I  guess  we  ain't  goin'  to  trade,  but 
I'd  like  to  know,'  he  says,  'jest  as  a  matter  of  curios'ty, 
what  you'd  say  he  was  wuth  to  ye.' 

"'Wa'al,'  I  says,  'I  come  over  this  mornin'  to  see  a 
feller  that  owed  me  a  trifle  o'  money.     Exceptin'  of 
some   loose    change,   what  he 
paid  me  's  all  I  got  with  me,' 
I  says,  takin'  out  my  wallet. 
1  That  wad's  got  a  hunderd  an' 
twenty-five  into  it,  an'  if  you'd 
sooner  have  your  hoss  an'  halter  than  the  wad,'  I  says, 
'why,  I'll  bid  ye  good-day.' 

"'You're  offerin'  one-twenty-five  fer  the  hoss  an'  hal- 
ter ? '  he  says. 

"'That's  what  I'm  doin','  I  says. 

"'You've  made  a  trade,'  he  says,  puttin'  out  his 
hand  fer  the  money  an'  handin'  the  halter  over  to 
me." 

"An'  didn't  ye  suspicion  nothin'  when  he  took  ye  up 
like  that?"  asked  Mrs.  Bixbee. 

"I  did  smell  woolen  some,"  said  David,  "but  I  had 
the  hoss  an'  they  had  the  money,  an',  as  fur  's  I  c'd  see, 
the  critter  was  all  right.  Howsomever,  I  says  to  'em  : 
'This  here's  all  right,  fur  's  it's  gone,  but  you've  talked 
putty  strong  'bout  this  hoss.  I  don't  know  who  you 
fellers  be,  but  I  c'n  find  out,'  I  says.  Then  the  fust 
feller  that  done  the  talkin'  'bout  the  hoss  put  in  an'  says, 
'The'  hain't  ben  one  word  said  to  you  about  this  hoss 
that  wa'u't  gospel  truth — not  one  word.'  An'  when  I 
come  to  think  oii't  afterward,"  said  David  with  a  half- 
laugh,  "it  mebbe  wa'n't  gospel  truth,  but  it  was  good 
enough  jury  truth.  I  guess  this  ain't  over  'n'  above  in- 


12  DAVID   HARUM 

t'restin'  to  ye,  is  it?"  he  asked  after  a  pause,  looking 
doubtfully  at  his  sister. 

"Yes,  'tis,"  she  asserted.  "I'm  lookin'  forrerd  to 
where  the  deakin  comes  in ;  but  you  jes'  tell  it  your 
own  way." 

"I'll  git  there  all  in  good  time,"  said  David,  "but 
some  o'  the  p'int  o'  the  story'll  be  lost  if  I  don't  tell  ye 
what  come  fust." 

"I  allow  to  stan'  it  's  long  's  you  can,"  she  said  en- 
couragingly, "seein'  what  work  I  had  gettin'  ye  started. 
Did  ye  find  out  anythin'  'bout  them  fellers?" 

"I  ast  the  barn  man  if  he  knowed  who  they  was,  an' 
he  said  he  never  seen  'em  till  the  yestid'y  before,  an' 
didn't  know  'em  f  m  Adam.  They  come  along  with  a 
couple  of  hosses,  one  drivin'  an'  t'other  leadin' — the 
one  I  bought.  I  ast  him  if  they  knowed  who  I  was,  an' 
he  said  one  on  'em  ast  him,  an'  he  told  him.  The  feller 
said  to  him,  seein'  me  drive  up  :  'That's  a  putty  likely  - 
lookin'  hoss.  Who's  drivin'  him  ? '  An'  he  says  to  the 
feller:  'That's  Dave  Harum,  fm  over  to  Homeville. 
He's  a  great  feller  fer  hosses,'  he  says." 

"Dave,"  said  Mrs.  Bixbee,  "them  chaps  jes'  laid  fer 
ye,  didn't  they  ?  " 

"I  reckon  they  did,"  he  admitted ;  "an'  they  was  as 
slick  a  pair  as  was  ever  drawed  to,"  which  expression 
was  lost  upon  his  sister.  David  rubbed  the  fringe  of 
yellowish-gray  hair  which  encircled  his  bald  pate  for  a 
moment. 

"Wa'al,"  he  resumed,  "after  the  talk  with  the  barn 
man,  I  smelt  woolen  stronger'n  ever,  but  I  didn't  say 
nothin',  an'  had  the  mare  hitched  an'  started  back.  Old 
Jinny  drives  with  one  hand,  an'  I  c'd  watch  the  new 
one  all  right,  an'  as  we  come  along  I  begun  to  think  I 


DAVID   HARUM  13 

wa'n't  stuck,  after  all.  I  never  see  a  hoss  travel  evener 
an'  nicer,  an'  when  we  come  to  a  good  level  place  I  sent 
the  old  mare  along  the  best  she  knew,  an'  the  new  one 
never  broke  his  gait,  an'  kep'  right  up  'ithout  'par'ntly 
half  tryin' ;  an'  Jinny  don't  take  most  folks'  dust, 
neither.  I  swan  !  'fore  I  got  home  I  reckoned  I'd  jest 
as  good  as  made  seventy-five,  anyway." 


CHAPTEE   II 

"THEN  the'  wa'n't  nothin'  the  matter  with  him,  after 
all,"  commented  Mrs.  Bixbee  in  rather  a  disappointed 
tone. 

"The  meanest  thing  top  of  the  earth  was  the  matter 
with  him,"  declared  David,  "but  I  didn't  find  it  out  till 
the  next  afternoon,  an'  then  I  found  it  out  good.  I 
hitched  him  to  the  open  buggy  an'  went  round  by  the 
East  road,  'cause  that  ain't  so  much  traveled.  He 
went  along  all  right  till  we  got  a  mile  or  so  out  of  the 
village,  an'  then  I  slowed  him  down  to  a  walk.  Wa'al, 
sir,  scat  my—  !  he  hadn't  walked  more'n  a  rod  'fore  he 
come  to  a  dead  stan'still.  I  clucked  an'  git-app'd,  an' 
finely  took  the  gad  to  him  a  little  ;  but  he  only  jes'  kind 
o'  humped  up  a  little,  an'  stood  like  he'd  took  root." 

"Wa'al,  now  ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Bixbee. 

"Yes'm,"  said  David  ;  "I  was  stuck  in  ev'ry  sense  of 
the  word." 

"What  d'ye  do?" 

"Wa'al,  I  tried  all  the  tricks  I  knowed-an'  I  could 
lead  him — but  when  I  was  in  the  buggy  he  wouldn't 
stir  till  he  got  good  an'  ready  ;  'n'  then  he'd  start  of  his 
own  accord  an'  go  on  a  spell,  an'  — 

"Did  he  keep  it  up?"  Mrs.  Bixbee  interrupted. 

"Wa'al,  I  sh'd  say  he  did.  I  finely  got  home  with  the 
critter,  but  I  thought  one  time  I'd  either  hev  to  lead 
him  or  spend  the  night  on  the  East  road.  He  balked  five 
sep'rate  times,  varyiu'  in  length,  an'  it  was  dark  when 
we  struck  the  barn."  , 

"I  should  hev  thought  you'd  'a'  wanted  to  kill  him," 


DAVID    HARUM  15 

said  Mrs.  Bixbee  j  "an'  the  fellers  that  sold  him  to  ye, 
too." 

"The'  was  times,"  David  replied,  with  a  nod  of  his 
head,  "when  if  he'd  a  fell  down  dead  I  wouldn't  hev 
figgered  on  puttin'  a  band  on  my  hat,  but  it  don't  never 
pay  to  git  mad  with  a  hoss  ;  an'  as  fer  the  feller  I  bought 
him  of,  when  I  remembered  how  he  told  me  he'd  stand 
without  hitchin',  I  swan !  I  had  to  laugh.  I  did,  fer  a 
fact.  'Stand  without  hitehin'  ! '  He,  he,  he  ! " 

"I  guess  you  wouldn't  think  it  was  so  awful  funny, 
if  you  hadn't  gone  an'  stuck  that  horse  onto  Dea- 
kin  Perkins — an'  I  don't  see  how  you  done  it." 

"Mebbe  that  is  part  of  the  joke,"  David  al- 
lowed, "an'  I'll  tell  ye  th'  rest  on't.     Th'  next 
day  I  hitched  the  new  one  to  th'  dem'crat 
wagin  an'  put  in  a  lot  of  straps  an'  rope,  an' 
started  off  fer  the  East  road  agin.      He  went 
fust-rate  till  we  come  to  about  the  place  where 
we  had  the  fust  trouble,  an'  sure  enough,  he 
balked  agin.      I  leaned  over  an'  hit  him  a 
smart  cut  on  the  off  shoulder,  but  he  only 
humped  a  little,  an'  never  lifted  a  foot.     I 
hit  him  another  lick,  with  the  selfsame  result. 
Then  I  got  down  an'  I  strapped  that  animal 
so't  he  couldn't  move  nothin'  but  his  head  an'  tail,  an' 
got  back  into  the  buggy.     Wa'al,  bomby,  it  may  'a' 
ben  ten  minutes,   or  it 
may  'a'  ben  more  or  less 
— it's  slow  work  settin' 
still    behind    a    balkin' 
hoss — he  was  ready  to  go 
on  his  own  account,  but  he  couldn't  budge.      He  kind 
o'  looked  round,  much  as  to  say,   'What  on  earth's 


16  DAVID   HARUM 

the  matter  ? '  an'  then  he  tried  another  move,  an'  then 
another,  but  no  go.  Then  I  got  down  an'  took  the 
hopples  off,  an'  then  climbed  back  into  the  buggy  an' 
says  '  Cluck  ! '  to  him,  an'  off  he  stepped  as  chipper  as 
could  be,  an'  we  went  joggin'  along  all  right  mebbe 
two  mile,  an7  when  I  slowed  up,  up  he  come  agin.  I 
gin  him  another  clip  in  the  same  place  on  the  shoulder, 
an'  I  got  down  an'  tied  him  up  agin,  an'  the  same  thing 
happened  as  before,  on'y  it  didn't  take  him  quite  so 
long  to  make  up  his  mind  about  startin',  an'  we  went 
some  further  without  a  hitch.  But  I  had  to  go  through 
the  pufformance  the  third  time  before  he  got  it  into  his 
head  that  if  he  didn't  go  when  I  wanted  he  couldn't  go 
when  he  wanted,  an'  that  didn't  suit  him  ;  an'  when  he 
felt  the  whip  on  his  shoulder  it  meant  bus'nis." 

"Was  that  the  end  of  his  balkin'  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Bixbee. 

"I  hed  to  give  him  one  more  go-round,"  said  David, 
"an'  after  that  I  didn't  hev  no  more  trouble  with  him. 
He  showed  symptoms  at  times,  but  a  touch  of  the  whip 
on  the  shoulder  alwus  fetched  him.  I  alwus  carried 
them  straps,  though,  till  the  last  two  three  times." 

"Wa'al,  what's  the  deakin  kickin'  about,  then?" 
asked  Aunt  Polly.  "You're  jes'  sayin'  you  broke  him 
of  balkin'." 

"Wa'al,"  said  David  slowly,  "some  hosses  will  balk 
with  some  folks  an'  not  with  others.  You  can't  most 
alwus  gen'ally  tell." 

"Didn't  the  deakin  hev  a  chance  to  try  him?" 

"He  hed  all  the  chance  he  ast  fer,"  replied  David. 
"Fact  is,  he  done  most  of  the  sellin',  as  well's  the  buy  in', 
himself." 

"How's  that?" 

"Wa'al,"  said  David,  "it  come  about  like  this  :  After 


DAVID   HARUM  17 

I'd  got  the  boss  where  I  c'd  handle  him  I  begun  to 
think  I'd  hed  some  int'restin'  an'  valu'ble  experience, 
an'  it  wa'n't  scurcely  fair  to  keep  it  all  to  myself.  I 
didn't  want  no  patent  on't,  an'  I  was  willin'  to  let  some 
other  feller  git  a  piece.  So  one  mornin',  week  before 
last — let's  see,  week  ago  Tuesday  it  was,  an'  a  mighty 
nice  mornin'  it  was,  too — one  o'  them  days  that  kind 
o'  lib'ral  up  your  mind— I  allowed  to  hitch  an'  drive  up 
past  the  deakin's  an'  back,  an'  mebbe  git  somethin'  to 
strengthen  my  faith,  et  cetery,  in  case  I  run  acrost  him. 
Wa'al,  's  I  come  along  I  seen  the  deakin  putterin' 
round,  an'  I  waved  my  hand  to  him  an'  went  by 
a-kitin'.  I  went  up  the  road  a  ways  an'  killed  a  little 
time,  an'  when  I  come  back  there  was  the  deakin,  as  I 
expected.  He  was  leanin'  over  the  fence,  an'  as  I 
jogged  up  he  hailed  me,  an'  I  pulled  up. 

"'Mornin',  Mr.  Harum,'  he  says. 

"' Mornin',  deakin,'  I  says.  'How  are  ye?  an'  how's 
Mis'  Perkins  these  days  ? ' 

"'I'm  fair,'  he  says,  'fair  to  middlin' ;  but  Mis'  Per- 
kins is  ailiii'  some — as  usyulj  he  says." 

"They  do  say,"  put  in  Mrs.  Bixbee,  "thet  Mis'  Per- 
kins don't  hev  much  of  a  time  herself." 

"Guess  she  hez  all  the  time  the'  is,"  answered  David. 
"Wa'al,"  he  went  on,  "we  passed  the  time  o'  day,  an' 
talked  a  spell  about  the  weather  an'  all  that,  an'  finely 
I  straightened  up  the  lines  as  if  I  was  goin'  on,  an'  then 
I  says  :  'Oh,  by  the  way,'  I  says,  'I  jes'  thought  on't.  I 
heard  Dominie  White  was  lookin'  fer  a  hoss  that'd  suit 
him.'  'I  hain't  heard,'  he  says  ;  but  I  see  in  a  minute 
he  hed — an'  it  really  was  a  fact — an'  I  says :  'I've  got 
a  roan  colt  risin'  five,  that  I  took  on  a  debt  a  spell  ago, 
that  I'll  sell  reasonable,  that's  as  likely  an'  nice  ev'ry 


i8  DAVID   HARUM 

•way  a  young  boss  as  ever  I  owned.  I  don't  need  him,' 
I  says,  'an'  didn't  want  to  take  him,  but  it  was  that 
or  nothin'  at  the  time  an'  glad  to  git  it,  an'  I'll  sell  him 
a  barg'in.  Now  what  I  want  to  say  to  you,  deakin,  is 
this  :  That  boss  'd  suit  the  dominie  to  a  T,  in  my  opin- 
ion, but  the  dominie  won't  come  to  me.  Now  if  you 
was  to  say  to  him — bein'  in  his  church  an'  all  thet,'  I 
says,  'that  you  c'd  git  him  the  right  kind  of  a  boss,  he'd 
believe  you,  an'  you  an'  me'd  be  doin'  a  little  stroke 
of  bus'nis,  an'  a  favor  to  the  dominie  into  the  bargain. 
The  dominie's  well  off,'  I  says,  'an'  c'n  afford  to  drive 
a  good  boss.' " 

"What  did  the  deakin  say?"  asked  Aunt  Polly  as 
David  stopped  for  breath. 

"I  didn't  expect  him  to  jump  down  my  throat,"  he 
answered  ;  "but  I  seen  him  prick  up  his  ears,  an'  all  the 
time  I  was  talkin'  I  noticed  him  lookin'  my  boss  over, 
head  an'  foot.  'Now  I  'member,'  he  says,  'hearin'  sun- 
thin'  'bout  Mr.  White's  lookin'  fer  a  boss,  though  when 
you  fust  spoke  on't  it  had  slipped  my  mind.  Of  course,' 
he  says,  'the'  ain't  any  real  reason  why  Mr.  White 
shouldn't  deal  with  you  direct,  an'  yit  mebbe  I  could  do 
more  with  him  'n  you  could.  But,'  he  says,  'I  wa'n't 
cal'latin'  to  go  t'  the  village  this  mornin',  an'  I  sent  my 
hired  man  off  with  my  drivin'  boss.  Mebbe  I'll  drop 
round  in  a  day  or  two,'  he  says,  'an'  look  at  the  roan.' 

'"You  mightn't  ketch  me,'  I  says,  'an'  I  want  to  show 
him  myself;  an'  rnore'n  that,'  I  says,  'Dug  Robinson's 
after  the  dominie.  I'll  tell  ye,'  I  says,  'you  jes'  git  in 
'ith  me  an'  go  down  an'  look  at  him,  an'  I'll  send  ye 
back  or  drive  ye  back,  an'  if  you've  got  anythin'  special 
on  hand  you  needn't  be  gone  three  quarters  of  an  hour,' 
I  says." 


DAVID    HARUM 


"He  come,  did  he  !  "  inquired  Mrs.  Bixbee. 

"He  done  so,"  said  David  sententiously,— "jest  as  I 
knowed  he  would,  after  he'd  hem'd  an'  haw'd  about  so 
much,  an'  he  rode  a  mile  an'  a  half  livelier  'n  he  done 
in  a  good  while,  I  reckon.  He  had  to  pull  that  old 
broadbrim  of  hisn  down  to  his  ears,  an'  don't  you  fergit 
it.  He,  he,  he,  he  !  The  road  was  jes'  fuU  o'  hosses. 
Wa'al,  we  drove  into  the  yard,  an'  I  told  the  hired  man 
to  unhitch  the  bay  hoss  an'  fetch  out  the  roan,  an'  while 
he  was  bein'  unhitched  the  deakin  stood  round  an' 
never  took  his  eyes  off'n  him,  an'  I  knowed  I  wouldn't 
sell  the  deakin  no  roan  hoss  that  day,  even  if  I  wanted 
to.  But  when  he  come  out  I  begun  to  crack  him  up, 
an'  I  talked  hoss  fer  all  I  was  wuth.  The  deakin  looked 
him  over  in  a  don't-care  kind  of  a  way,  an'  didn't 
'parently  give  much  heed  to  what  I  was 
sayin'.  Fin'ly  I  says,  'Wa'al,  what  do 
you  think  of  him  ? '  '  Wa'al,'  he  says, 
'  he  seems  to  be  a  likely  enough  critter, 
but  I  don't  believe  he'd  suit  Mr.  White 
— 'fraid  not,'  he  says.  'What  you 
askin'  fer  him?'  he  says.  'One-fifty,' 
I  says,  'an'  he's  a  cheap  hoss  at  the 
money ' ;  but,"  added  the  speaker  with 
a  laugh,  "I  knowed  I  might  's  well  of 
said  a  thousan'.  The  deakin  wa'n't 
buyin'  no  roan  colts  that  mornin'." 


• 


20  DAVID   HARUM 

"What  did  he  say?"  asked  Mrs.  Bixbee. 
'"  Wa'al,'  he  says,  (  wa'al,  I  guess  you  ought  to  git  that 
much  fer  him,  but  I'm  'fraid  he  ain't  what  Mr.  White 
wants.'  An'  then,  'That's  quite  a  hoss  we  come  down 
with,'  he  says.  'Had  him  long?  '  (  Jes'  long  'no  ugh  to 
git  'quainted  with  him,'  I  says.  'Don't  you  want  the 

roanferyour 
own  use?'  I 
says.  '  Meb- 
be  we  c'd 
shade  the 
price  a 

little.'  'No,' 

i«-  -ys,  -i 

guess  not.  I 
don't  need 
another  hoss 


An'       then, 
after  a  min- 

ute, he  says:  'Say,  mebbe 
the  bay  hoss  we  drove  'd 
come  nearer  the  mark  fer 
White,  if  he's  all  right.  Jest  as 
soon  I'd  look  at  him?'  he  says. 
'Wa'al,  I  hain't  no  objections,  but  I  guess  he's  more 
of  a  hoss  than  the  dominie  'd  care  fer,  but  I'll  go  an' 
fetch  him  out,'  I  says.  So  I  brought  him  out,  an'  the 
deakin  looked  him  all  over.  I  see  it  was  a  case  of  love 
at  fust  sight,  as  the  story-books  say.  '  Looks  all  right,' 
he  says.  'I'll  tell  ye,'  I  says,  'what  the  feller  I  bought 
him  of  told  me.'  '  What's  that  ?  '  says  the  deakin.  '  He 
said  to  me,'  I  says,  '"that  hoss  hain't  got  a  scratch 


DAVID   HARUM  21 

ner  a  pimple  on  him.  He's  sound  an'  kind,  an'  '11 
stand  without  hitchin',  an'  a  lady  c'd  drive  him  as 
well  's  a  man." 

"'That's  what  he  said  to  me/  I  says,  'an'  it's  every 
word  on't  true.  You've  seen  whether  or  not  he  c'n 
travel,'  I  says,  'an',  so  fur  's  I've  seen,  he  ain't  'fraid  o' 
nothin'.'  'D'ye  want  to  sell  him?'  the  deakin  says. 
'  Wa'al,'  I  says,  'I  ain't  offerin'  him  fer  sale.  You'll  go 
a  good  ways/  I  says,  ( 'fore  you'll  strike  such  another ; 
but,  of  course,  he  ain't  the  only  hoss  in  the  world,  an'  I 
never  had  anythin'  in  the  hoss  line  I  wouldn't  sell  at 
some  price.'  'Wa'al/  he  says,  'what  d'ye  ask  fer  him? ' 
'Wa'al/  I  says,  'if  my  own  brother  was  to  ask  me  that 
question  I'd  say  to  him  two  hunderd  dollars,  cash  down, 
an'  I  wouldn't  hold  the  offer  open  an  hour/  I  says." 

"My!"  ejaculated  Aunt  Polly.  "Did  he  take  you 
up?" 

"'That's  more'n  I  give  fer  a  hoss  in  a  good  while/  he 
says,  shakin'  his  head,  'an'  more'n  I  c'n  afford,  I'm 
'fraid.'  '  All  right/  I  says  ;  '  I  c'n  afford  to  keep  him ' ; 
but  I  knew  I  had  the  deakin  same  as  the  woodchuck 
had  Skip.  '  Hitch  up  the  roan/  I  says  to  Mike ;  '  the 
deakin  wants  to  be  took  up  to  his  house.'  '  Is  that  your 
last  word  ? '  he  says.  '  That's  what  it  is/  I  says.  '  Two 
hunderd,  cash  down.' " 

"Didn't  ye  dast  to  trust  the  deakin?"  asked  Mrs. 
Bixbee. 

"Polly,"  said  David,  "the's  a  number  of  holes  in  a 
ten-foot  ladder." 

Mrs.  Bixbee  seemed  to  understand  this  rather  ambigu- 
ous rejoinder. 

"He  must  'a'  squirmed  some,"  she  remarked. 

David  laughed. 


22  DAVID   HARUM 

"The  deakin  ain't  much  used  to  payin'  the  other 
feller's  price,"  he  said,  "an'  it  was  like  pullin'  teeth ; 
but  he  wanted  that  hoss  more'n  a  cow  wants  a  calf,  an' 
after  a  little  more  squimmidgin'  he  hauled  out  his 
wallet  an'  forked  over.  Mike  come  out  with  the  roan, 
an'  off  the  deakin  went,  leadin'  the  bay  hoss." 

"I  don't  see,"  said  Mrs.  Bixbee,  looking  up  at  her 
brother,  "thet  after  all  the'  was  any  thin'  you  said  to  the 
deakin  thet  he  could  ketch  holt  on." 

"The'  wa'n't  nothin',"  he  replied.  "The  only  thing 
he  c'n  complain  about's  what  I  didrft  say  to  him." 

"Hain't  he  said  anythin'  to  ye?"  Mrs.  Bixbee  in- 
quired. 

"He,  he,  he,  he  !  He  hain't  but  once,  an'  the'  wa'n't 
but  little  of  it  then." 

"How?" 

"  Wa'al,  the  day  but  one  after  the  deakin  sold  himself 
Mr.  Stickin' -Plaster  I  hed  an  arrant  three  four  mile 
or  so  up  past  his  place,  an'  when  I  was  comin'  back, 
along  'bout  four  or  half-past,  it  come  on  to  rain  like  all 
possessed.  I  hed  my  old  umbrel' — though  it  didn't 
hender  me  f  m  gettin'  more  or  less  wet — an'  I  sent  the 
old  mare  along  fer  all  she  knew.  As  I  come  along  to 
within  a  mile  f  m  the  deakin's  house  I  seen  somebody 
in  the  road,  an'  when  I  come  up  closter  I  see  it  was  the 
deakin  himself,  in  trouble,  an'  I  kind  o'  slowed  up  to 
see  what  was  goin'  on.  There  he  was,  settin'  all  humped 
up  with  his  ole  broad-brim  hat  slopin'  down  his  back, 
a-sheddin'  water  like  a  roof.  Then  I  seen  him  lean  over 
an'  larrup  the  hoss  with  the  ends  of  the  lines  fer  all  he 
was  wuth.  It  appeared  he  hedn't  no  whip,  an'  it 
wouldn't  done  him  no  good  if  he'd  hed.  Wa'al,  sir,  rain 
or  no  rain,  I  jes'  pulled  up  to  watch  him.  He'd  larrup 


DAVID   HARUM 


a  spell,  an'  then  he'd  set  back  ;  an'  then  he'd  lean  over 

an'  try  it  agin,  harder' n  ever.     Scat  my —  !     I  thought 

I'd  die  a-laughin'.     I  couldn't  hardly  cluck  to  the  mare 

when  I  got  ready  to  move  on.     I  drove  alongside  an' 

pulled  up.     '  Hullo,  deakin,'  I  says, l  what's  the  matter  ? ' 

He  looked  up  at  me,  an'  I  won't  say  he  was  the  maddest 

man  I  ever  see,  but 

he  was  long  ways  the 

maddest-Zoofcw'    man, 

an'  he  shook  his  fist  at  \ 

me  jes'  like  one  o'  the 

unregen'rit.  'Consarn 

ye,  Dave  Harum  !  >  he 

says,  Til  hev  the  law 

on  ye  fer  this.'   ' What 

fer? 'I  says.  '  I  didn't 

make  it  come  on 

to  rain,  did  If  I 

says.  'You  know 

mighty  well  what 

fer,' he  says.  'You 

sold      me      this 

damned  beast,'  he 

says,     'an'     he's 

balked  with  me 

nine  times  this  afternoon,  an'  I'll  fix  ye  for't,'  he  says. 

'Wa'al,  deakin,'  I  says,  'I'm  'fraid  the  squire's  office  '11 

be  shut  up  'fore  you  git  there,  but  I'll  take  any  word 

you'd  like  to  send.    You  know  I  told  ye,'  I  says,  'that 

he'd  stand  'ithout  hitchin'.'     An'  at  that  he  only  jest 

kind  o'  choked  an'  sputtered.      He  was  so  mad  he 

couldn't  say  uothin',  an'  on  I  drove,  an'  when  I  got 

about  forty  rod  or  so  I  looked  back,  an'  there  was  the 


24  DAVID   HARUM 

deakin  a-comin'  along  the  road  with  as  much  of  his 
shoulders  as  he  could  git  under  his  hat  an'  leadiri1  his 
new  hoss.  He,  he,  he,  he  !  Oh,  my  stars  an'  garters  ! 
Say,  Polly,  it  paid  me  fer  bein'  born  into  this  vale  o' 
tears.  It  did,  I  declare  for't ! " 

Aunt  Polly  wiped  her  eyes  on  her  apron. 

"But,  Dave,"  she  said,  "did  the  deakin  really  say — 
that  word  f  " 

"Wa'al,"  he  replied,  "if  twa'n't  that  it  was  the  put- 
tiest  imitation  on't  that  ever  I  heard." 

"David,"  she  continued,  "don't  you  think  it  putty 
mean  to  badger  the  deakin  so't  he  swore,  an'  then 
laugh  'bout  it?  An'  I  s'pose  you've  told  the  story 
all  over." 

"Mis'  Bixbee,"  said  David  emphatically,  "if  I'd  paid 
good  money  to  see  a  funny  show  I'd  be  a  blamed  fool  if 
I  didn't  laugh,  wouldn't  1 1  That  specticle  of  the  deakin 
cost  me  consid'able,  but  it  was  more'n  wuth  it.  But," 
he  added,  "I  guess,  the  way  the  thing  stands  now,  I 
ain't  so  much  out,  on  the  hull." 

Mrs.  Bixbee  looked  at  him  inquiringly. 
"Of  course,  you  know  Dick  Larrabee?"  he  asked. 

She  nodded. 

"Wa'al,  three  four  days  after  the.  shower,  an' 
the  story  'd  got  aroun'  some — as  you  say,  the 
deakin  is  consid'able   of  a  talker — I   got  holt 
of  Dick— I've  done 
him  some  favors  an' 
he  natur'ly  expects 
more — an'  I  says  to 
him  :  '  Dick,'  I  says, 
<I  hear  't  Deakin 
Perkins     has     got 


DAVID   HARUM 


a  hoss  that  don't  jest  suit  him — hain't  got  knee-action 
enough  at  times/  I  says,  'an'  mebbe  he'll  sell  him  rea- 
sonable.' 'I've  heerd  somethin'  about  it,'  says  Dick, 
laughin'.  '  One  of  them  kind  o'  hosses  't  you  don't  like 
to  git  ketched  out  in  the  rain 
with/  he  says.  'Jes'  so,'  I 
says.  'Now,'  I  says,  'I've 
got  a  notion  't  I'd 
like  to 
own  that 
hoss  at  a 
price,  an' 
that  meb- 
be I  c'd 
git  him 
home  even 
if  it  did  rain.  Here's 
a  hunderd  an'  ten,' 
I  says,  'an'  I  want  you 
to  see  how  fur  it'll  go  to 
buyin'  him.  If  you  git 

me  the  hoss  you  needn't  bring  none  on't  back.  Want 
to  try  t '  I  says.  '  All  right,'  he  says,  an'  took  the  money. 
'  But/  he  says, '  won't  the  deakin  suspicion  that  it  comes 
from  you  ! '  '  Wa'al/  I  says, '  my  portrit  ain'l  on  none  o' 
the  bills,  an'  I  reckon  you  won't  tell  him  so,  out  an'  out/ 
an'  off  he  went.  Yistid'y  he  come  in,  an'  I  says,  'Wa'al, 
done  anythin"?'  'The  hoss  is  in  your  barn/  he  says. 
'  Good  fer  you  ! '  I  says.  '  Did  you  make  anythin'  ? '  '  I'm 
satisfied/  he  says.  'I  made  a  ten-dollar  note.'  An' 
that's  the  net  results  on't,"  concluded  David,  "that  I've 
got  the  hoss,  an'  he's  cost  me  jes'  thirty-five  dollars." 


CHAPTER  III 

MASTER  JACKY  CABLING  was  a  very  nice  boy,  but  not 
at  that  time  in  his  career  the  safest  person  to  whom  to 
intrust  a  missive  in  case  its  sure  and  speedy  delivery 
were  a  matter  of  importance.  But  he  protested  with 
so  much  earnestness  and  good  will  that  it  should  be  put 
into  the  very  first  post-box  he  came  to  on  his  way  to 
school,  and  that  nothing  could  induce  him  to  forget  it, 
that  Mary  Blake,  his  aunt,  confidante  and  not  un fre- 
quently counsel  and  advocate,  gave  it  him  to  post,  and 
dismissed  the  matter  from  her  mind.  Unfortunately, 
the  weather,  which  had  been  very  frosty,  had  changed 
in  the  night  to  a  summer-like  mildness.  As  Jacky 
opened  the  door,  three  or  four  of  his  school -fellows  were 
passing.  He  felt  the  softness  of  the  spring  morning, 
and  to  their  injunction  to  "Hurry  up  and  come  along  ! " 
replied  with  an  entreaty  to  wait  a  minute  till  he  left 
his  overcoat  (all  boys  hate  an  overcoat),  and  plunged 
back  into  the  house. 

If  John  Lenox  (John  Knox  Lenox)  had  received 
Miss  Blake's  note  of  condolence  and  sympathy,  written 
in  reply  to  his  own,  wherein,  besides  speaking  of  his 


DAVID   HARUM  27 

bereavement,  he  had  made  allusion  to  some  changes  in 
his  prospects  and  some  necessary  alterations  in  his  ways 
for  a  time,  he  might  perhaps  have  read  between  the  lines 
something  more  than  merely  a  kind  expression  of  her 
sorrow  for  the  trouble  which  had  come  upon  him,  and 
the  reminder  that  he  had  friends  who,  if  they  could 
not  do  more  to  lessen  his  grief,  would  give  him  their 
truest  sympathy.  And  if  some  days  later  he  had  re- 
ceived a  second  note,  saying  that  she  and  her  people 
were  about  to  go  away  for  some  months,  and  asking 
him  to  come  and  see  them  before  their  departure,  it  is 
possible  that  very  many  things  set  forth  in  this  narra- 
tive would  not  have  happened. 

Life  had  always  been  made  easy  for  John  Lenox,  and 
his  was  not  the  temperament  to  interpose  obstacles  to 
the  process.  A  course  at  Andover  had  been  followed 
by  two  years  at  Princeton  ;  but  at  the  end  of  the  second 
year  it  had  occurred  to  him  that  practical  life  ought 
to  begin  for  him,  and  he  had  thought  it  rather  fine  of 
himself  to  undertake  a  clerkship  in  the  office  of  Kush 
&  Co.,  where,  in  the  ensuing  year  and  a  half  or  so, 
though  he  took  his  work  in  moderation,  he  got  a  fair 
knowledge  of  accounts  and  the  ways  and  methods  of 
"the  Street."  But  that  period  of  it  was  enough.  He 
found  himself  not  only  regretting  the  abandonment  of 
his  college  career,  but  feeling  that  the  thing  for  which 
he  had  given  it  up  had  been  rather  a  waste  of  time. 
He  came  to  the  conclusion  that,  though  he  had  entered 
college  later  than  most,  even  now  a  further  acquaint- 
ance with  text-books  and  professors  was  more  to  be  de- 
sired than  with  ledgers  and  brokers.  His  father 
(somewhat  to  his  wonderment;  and  possibly  a  little  to 


28  DAVID   HARUM 

his  chagrin)  seemed  rather  to  welcome  the  suggestion 
that  he  spend  a  couple  of  years  in  Europe,  taking  some 
lectures  at  Heidelberg  or  elsewhere,  and  traveling  ; 
and  in  the  course  of  that  time  he  acquired  a  pretty  fair 
working  acquaintance  with  German,  brought  his 
knowledge  of  French  up  to  about  the  same  point,  and 
came  back  at  the  end  of  two  years  with  a  fine  and  dis- 
criminating taste  in  beer,- and  a  scar  over  his  left  eye- 
brow which  could  be  seen  if  attention  were  called  to  it. 

He  started  upon  his  return  without  any  definite  in- 
tentions or  for  any  special  reason,  except  that  he  had 
gone  away  for  two  years  and  that  the  two  years  were 
up.  He  had  carried  on  a  desultory  correspondence 
with  his  father,  who  had  replied  occasionally,  rather 
briefly,  but  on  the  whole  affectionately.  He  had  no- 
ticed that  during  the  latter  part  of  his  stay  abroad  the 
replies  had  been  more  than  usually  irregular,  but  had 
attributed  no  special  significance  to  the  fact.  It  was 
not  until  afterward  that  it  occurred  to  him  that  in  all 
their  correspondence  his  father  had  never  alluded  in 
any  way  to  his  return. 

On  the  passenger  list  of  the  Altruria  John  came  upon 
the  names  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Julius  Carling  and  Miss 
Blake. 

"Blake,  Blake,"  he  said  to  himself.  "Carling-I 
seem  to  remember  to  have  known  that  name  at  some 
time.  It  must  be  little  Mary  Blake,  whom  I  knew  as 
a  small  girl  years  ago,  and — yes,  Carling  was  the  name 
of  the  man  her  sister  married.  Well,  well,  I  wonder 
what  she  is  like.  Of  course,  I  shouldn't  know  her  from 
Eve  now,  or  she  me  from  Adam.  All  I  can  remember 
seems  to  be  a  pair  of  very  slim  and  active  legs,  a  lot  of 
flying  hair,  a  pair  of  brownish-gray  or  grayish-brown 


DAVID   HARUM  29 

eyes,  and  that  I  thought  her  a  very  nice  girl,  as  girls 
went.  But  it  doesn't  in  the  least  follow  that  I  might 
think  so  now,  and  shipboard  is  pretty  close  quarters 
for  seven  or  eight  days." 

Dinner  is  by  all  odds  the  chief  event  of  the  day  on 
board  ship  to  those  who  are  able  to  dine,  and  they  will 
leave  all  other  attractions,  even  the  surpassingly  inter- 
esting things  which  go  on  in  the  smoking-room,  at  once 
on  the  sound  of  the  gong  of  promise.  On  this  first  night 
of  the  voyage  the  ship  was  still  in  smooth  water  at 
dinner-time,  and  many  a  place  was  occupied  that  would 
know  its  occupant  for  the  first,  and  very  possibly  for 
the  last,  time.  The  passenger  list  was  fairly  large,  but 
not  full.  John  had  assigned  to  him  a  seat  at  a  side 
table.  He  was  hungry,  having  had  no  luncheon  but  a 
couple  of  biscuits  and  a  glass  of  "bitter,"  and  was  taking 
his  first  mouthful  of  Perrier- Jouet,  after  the  soup,  and 
scanning  the  dinner-card,  when  the  people  at  his  table 
came  in.  The  man  of  the  trio  was  obviously  an  invalid 
of  the  nervous  variety,  and  the  most  decided  type. 
The  small,  dark  woman  who  took  the  corner  seat  at 
his  left  was  undoubtedly,  from  the  solicitous  way  in 
which  she  adjusted  a  small  shawl  about  his  shoulders — 
to  his  querulous  uneasiness — his  wife.  There  was  a 
good  deal  of  white  in  the  dark  hair  brushed  smoothly 
back  from  her  face.  A  tall  girl,  with  a  mass  of  brown 
hair  under  a  felt  traveling  hat,  followed  her,  and  took 
the  corner  seat  at  the  man's  right. 

These  were  all  the  details  of  the  party's  appearance 
that  John  discovered  in  the  brief  glance  he  allowed 
himself  at  the  moment.  But  though  their  faces,  so  far 
as  he  had  seen  them,  were  unfamiliar  to  him,  their 
identity  was  made  plain  to  him  by  the  first  words 


30  DAVID   HARUM 

which  caught  his  ear.  There  were  two  soups  on  the 
menu,  and  the  man's  mind  instantly  poised  itself  be- 
tween them. 

"Which  soup  shall  I  take?"  he  asked,  turning  with 
a  frown  of  uncertainty  to  his  wife. 

"I  should  say  the  consomme,  Julius,"  was  the  reply 

"I  thought  I  should  like  the  broth  better,"  he 
objected. 

"I  don't  think  it  will  disagree  with  you,"  she  said. 

"Perhaps  I  had  better  have  the  consomme,'1'1  he  argued, 
looking  with  appeal  to  his  wife  and  then  to  the  girl  at 
his  right.  "Which  would  you  take,  Mary ?  " 

"I?"  said  the  young  woman.  "I  should  take  both  in 
my  present  state  of  appetite.  Steward,  bring  both 
soups.  What  wine  shall  I  order  for  you,  Julius?  I 
want  some  champagne,  and  I  prescribe  it  for  you. 
After  your  mental  struggle  over  the  soup  question  you 
need  a  quick  stimulant." 

"Don't  you  think  a  red  wine  would  be  better  for 
me?"  he  asked;  "or  perhaps  some  Sauterne?  I'm 
afraid  that  I  sha'n't  go  to  sleep  if  I  drink 
champagne.  In  fact,  I  don't  think  I  had 
better  take  any  wine  at  all.  Perhaps 
some  ginger  ale  or  Apollinaris  water." 

"No,"  she  said  decisively,  "whatever 
you  decide  upon,  you  know  that  you  '11 
think  what  I  have  would  be  better  for  you,  and  I  shall 
want  more  than  one  glass,  and  Alice  wants  some,  too. 
Oh,  yes,  you  do  ;  and  I  shall  order  a  quart  of  champagne. 
Steward," — giving  her  order,— "please  be  as  quick  as 
you  can." 

John  had  by  this  fully  identified  his  neighbors,  and 
the  talk  which  ensued  between  them,  consisting  mostly 


DAVID   HARUM  31 

of  controversies  between  the  invalid  and  his  family 
over  the  items  of  the  bill  of  fare,  every  course  being 
discussed  as  to  its  probable  effect  upon  his  stomach  or 
his  nerves — the  question  being  usually  settled  with  a 
whimsical  high-handedness  by  the  young  woman — gave 
him  a  pretty  good  notion  of  their  relations  and  the  state 
of  affairs  in  general.  Notwithstanding  Miss  Blake's 
benevolent  despotism,  the  invalid  was  still  wrangling 
feebly  over  some  last  dish  when  John  rose  and  o 
went  to  the  smoking-room  for  his  coffee  and  ^ 
cigarette. 

When  he  stumbled  forth  in  search  of  .his  bath 
next  morning  the  steamer  was  well  out  at  sea, 
and  rolling  and  pitching  in  a  way  calculated  to 
disturb  the  gastric  functions  of  the  hardiest. 
But,  after  a  shower  of  sea  water  and  a  rub  down, 
he  found  himself  with  a  feeling  for  bacon  and 
eggs  that  made  him  proud  of  himself,  and  he 
went  in  to  breakfast,  to  find,  rather  to  his  sur- 
prise, that  Miss  Blake  was  before  him,  looking  as 
fresh — well,  as  fresh  as  a  handsome  girl  of  nine- 
teen or  twenty  and  in  perfect  health  could  look. 
She  acknowledged  his  perfunctory 
bow  as  he  took  his  seat  with  a  stiff 
little  bend  of  the  head  ;  but  later  on, 
when  the  steward  was  absent  on  some  order,  he  elicited 
a  "Thank  you  !"  by  handing  her  something  which  he 
saw  she  wanted ;  and,  one  thing  leading  to  another,  as 
things  have  a  way  of  doing  where  young  and  attractive 
people  are  concerned,  they  were  presently  engaged  in 
an  interchange  of  small  talk.  But  before  John  was 
moved  to  the  point  of  disclosing  himself  on  the  warrant 
of  a  former  acquaintance  she  had  finished  her  breakfast. 


32  DAVID   HARUM 

The  weather  continued  very  stormy  for  two  days, 
and  during  that  time  Miss  Blake  did  not  appear  at 
table.  At  any  rate,  if  she  breakfasted  there  it  was 
either  before  or  after  his  appearance,  and  he  learned 
afterward  that  she  had  taken  luncheon  and  dinner  in 
her  sister's  room. 

The  morning  of  the  third  day  broke  bright  and  clear. 
There  was  a  long  swell  upon  the  sea,  but  the  motion  of 
the  boat  was  even  and  endurable  to  all  but  the  most 
susceptible.  As  the  morning  advanced  the  deck  began 
to  fill  with  promenaders,  and  to  be  lined  with  chairs 
holding  wrapped- up  figures  showing  faces  of  all  shades 
of  green  and  gray. 

John,  walking  for  exercise,  and  at  a  wholly  unneces- 
sary pace,  turning  at  a  sharp  angle  around  the  deck- 
house, fairly  ran  into  the  girl  about  whom  he  had  been 
wondering  for  the  last  two  days.  She  received  his 
somewhat  incoherent  apologies,  regrets,  and  self-accu- 
sations in  such  a  spirit  of  forgiveness  that  before  long 
they  were  supplementing  their  first  conversation  with 
something  more  personal  and  satisfactory ;  and  when 
he  came  to  the  point  of  saying  that  half  by  accident  he 
had  found  out  her  name,  and  begged  to  be  allowed  to 
tell  her  his  own,  she  looked  at  him  with  a  smile  of 
frank  amusement,  and  said  :  "It  is  quite  unnecessary, 
Mr.  Lenox.  I  knew  you  instantly  when  I  saw  you  at 
table  the  first  night ;  but,"  she  added  mischievously,  "I 
am  afraid  your  memory  for  people  you  have  known  is 
not  so  good  as  mine." 

"Well,"  said  John,  "you  will  admit,  I  think,  that 
the  change  from  a  little  girl  in  short  frocks  to  a  tall 
young  woman  in  a  tailor-made  gown  is  more  disguising 
than  that  which  happens  to  a  boy  of  fifteen  or  so.  I 


DAVID   HARUM  33 

saw  your  name  in  the  passenger  list  with  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Carling,  and  wondered  if  it  could  be  the  Mary  Blake 
whom  I  really  did  remember ;  and  the  first  night  at 
dinner,  when  I  heard  .... 

your  sister  call  Mr.  Car- 
ling  f  Julius/  and  heard 
him  call  you  'Mary,' 
I  was  sure  of  you.  But 
I  hardly  got  a  fair  look  at  your  face,  and,  indeed,  I 
confess  that  if  I  had  had  no  clew  at  all  I  might  not 
have  recognized  you." 

"I  think  you  would  have  been  quite  excusable,"  she 
replied,  "and  whether  you  would  or  would  not  have 
known  me  is  'one  of  those  things  that  no  fellow  can 
find  out,'  and  isn't  of  supreme  importance  anyway. 
We  each  know  who  the  other  is  now,  at  all  events." 

"Yes,"  said  John,  "I  am  happy  to  think  that  we  have 
come  to  a  conclusion  on  that  point.  But  how  does  it 
happen  that  I  have  heard  nothing  of  you  all  these 
years,  or  you  of  me,  as  I  suppose?  " 

"For  the  reason,  I  fancy,"  she  replied,  "that  during 
that  period  of  short  frocks  with  me  my  sister  married 
Mr.  Carling  and  took  me  with  her  to  Chicago,  where  Mr. 
Carling  was  in  business.  We  have  been  back  in  New 
York  only  for  the  last  two  or  three  years." 

"It  might  have  been  on  the  cards  that  I  should 
come  across  you  in  Europe,"  said  John.  "The  beaten 
track  is  not  very  broad.  How  long  have  you  been 
over?" 

"Only  about  six  months,"  she  replied.  "We  have 
been  at  one  or  another  of  the  German  spas  most  of  the 
time,  as  we  went  abroad  for  Mr.  Carling's  health,  and 
we  are  on  our  way  home  on  about  such  an  impulse  as 


34  DAVID   HARUM 

that  which  started  us  away — he  thinks  now  that  he 
will  be  better  there." 

"I  am  afraid  you  have  not  derived  much  pleasure 
from  your  European  experiences,"  said  John. 

"Pleasure ! "  she  exclaimed.  "If  ever  you  saw  a 
young  woman  who  was  glad  and  thankful  to  turn  her 
face  toward  home,  I  am  that  person.  I  think  that  one 
of  the  heaviest  crosses  humanity  has  to  bear  is  having 
constantly  to  decide  between  two  or  more  absolutely 
trivial  conclusions  in  one's  own  affairs ;  but  when  one 
is  called  upon  to  multiply  one's  useless  perplexities  by, 
say,  ten,  life  is  really  a  burden. 

"I  suppose,"  she  added  after  a  pause,  "you  couldn't 
help  hearing  our  discussions  at  dinner  the  other  night, 
and  I  have  wondered  a  little  what  you  must  have 
thought." 

"Yes,"  he  said,  " I  did  hear  it.  Is  it  the  regular  thing, 
if  I  may  ask  ?  " 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  replied,  with  a  tone  of  sadness ;  "it  has 
grown  to  be." 

"It  must  be  very  trying  at  times,"  John  remarked. 
"It   is,    indeed,"   she   said,   "and  would    often    be 
unendurable    to    me     if    it 
\J$F  fi$&39     were    not    for   my   sense    of 
humor,  as  it  would  be  to  my 
sister  if  it  were  not  for  her 
love,   for  Julius   is  really  a 
very  lovable  man,  and  I,  too, 
am  very  fond  of  him.     But  I 
must  laugh  sometimes,  though 
my  better  nature  should  rather,  I  suppose,  impel  me 
to  sighs." 

"'A  little  laughter  is  much  more  worth,'  "  he  quoted. 


CHAPTER   IV 

THEY  were  leaning  upon  the  rail  at  the  stern  of  the 
ship,  which  was  going  with  what  little  wind  there  was, 
and  a  following  sea,  with  which,  as  it  plunged  down 
the  long  slopes  of  the  waves,  the  vessel  seemed  to  be 
running  a  victorious  race.  The  water  was  a  deep  sap- 
phire, and  in  the  wake  the  sunlight  turned  the  broken 
wave-crests  to  a  vivid  emerald.  The  air  was  of  a  caress- 
ing softness,  and  altogether  it  was  a  day  and  scene 
of  indescribable  beauty  and  inspiration.  For  a  while 
there  was  silence  between  them,  which  John  broke  at 
last, 

"I  suppose,"  he  said,  "that  one  would  best  show  his 
appreciation  of  all  this  by  refraining  from  the  comment 
which  must  needs  be  comparatively  commonplace,  but 
really  this  is  so  superb  that  I  must  express  some  of  my 
emotion  even  at  the  risk  of  lowering  your  opinion  of 
my  good  taste,  provided,  of  course,  that  you  have  one." 

"Well,"  she  said,  laughing,  "it  may  relieve  your 
mind,  if  you  care,  to  know  that  had  you  kept  silent  an 
instant  longer  I  should  have  taken  the  risk  of  lowering 
your  opinion  of  my  good  taste — provided,  of  course, 
that  you  have  one— by  remarking  that  this  was  per- 
fectly magnificent." 

"I  should  think  that  this  would  be  the  sort  of  day  to 
4 


DAVID   HARUM 


get  Mr.  Carling  on  deck.     This  air  and  sun  would  brace 
him  up/'  said  John. 

She  turned  to  him  with  a  laugh,  and  said:  "That  is 
the  general  opinion,  or  was  two  hours  ago ;  but  I'm 
afraid  it's  out  of  the  question  now,  unless  we  can  man- 
age it  after  luncheon." 

"What  do  you  mean?  "  he  asked,  with  a  puzzled  smile 
at  the  mixture  of  annoyance  and  amusement  visible  in 
her  face.  "Same  old  story?  " 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  "same  old  story.     When  I  went 
to  my  breakfast  I  called  at  my  sister's  room  and  said, 
"X       "'Come,  boys  and  girls,  come 
^\^         out  to  play,  the  sun  doth  shine 
as  bright  as  day,"  and  when 
I  've  had  my  breakfast  I  'm 
coming   to    lug   you   both    on 
deck.     It's  a  perfectly  glorious 
morning,  and  it  will   do   you 
both  no  end  of  good  after  being 
shut  up  so  long.'      'All 
right,'    my     sister     an- 
swered, 'Julius  has  quite 
made   up    his    mind    to 
go  up  as  soon  as  he  is 
dressed.       You    call 
for    us    in    half   an 
hour,   and   we    shall 
be  ready.' " 

"And  wouldn't  he  come?"  John  asked;  "and  why 
not?" 

"Oh,"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  laugh  and  a  shrug  of  her 
shoulders,  "shoes." 

"Shoes  ! "  said  John.     "What  do  you  mean  ? " 


DAVID   HARUM  37 

"Just  what  I  say/'  was  the  rejoinder.  "When  I 
went  back  to  the  room  I  found  my  brother-in-law  sit- 
ting on  the  edge  of  the  lounge,  or  whatever  you  call 
it,  all  dressed  but  his  coat,  rubbing  his  chin  between 
his  finger  and.  thumb,  and  gazing  with  despairing  per- 
plexity at  his  feet.  It  seems  that  my  sister  had  got 
past  all  the  other  dilemmas,  but  in  a  moment  of  inad- 
vertence had  left  the  shoe  question  to  him,  with  the  re- 
sult that  he  had  put  on  one  russet  shoe  and  one  black 
one,  and  had  laced  them  up  before  discovering  the 
discrepancy." 

"I  don't  see  anything  very  difficult  in  that  situation," 
remarked  John. 

"Don't  you?"  she  said  scornfully.  "No,  I  suppose 
not ;  but  it  was  quite  enough  for  Julius,  and  more  than 
enough  for  my  sister  and  me.  His  first  notion  was  to 
take  off  both  shoes  and  begin  all  over  again,  and  per- 
haps if  he  had  been  allowed  to  carry  it  out  he  would 
have  been  all  right ;  but  Alice  was  silly  enough  to  sug- 
gest the  obvious  thing  to  him — to  take  off  one,  and  put 
on  the  mate  to  the  other— and  then  the  trouble  began. 
First  he  was  in  favor  of  the  black  shoes  as  being  thicker 
in  the  sole,  and  then  he  reflected  that  they  hadn't  been 
blackened  since  coming  on  board.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  the  russets  were  more  appropriate  anyway,  but 
the  blacks  were  easier  to  lace.  Had  I  noticed  whether 
the  men  on  board  were  wearing  russet,  or  black,  as  a 
rule,  and  did  Alice  remember  whether  it  was  one  of 
the  russets,  or  one  of  the  blacks,  that  he  was  saying,  the 
other  day,  pinched  his  toe?  He  didn't  quite  like  the 
looks  of  a  russet  shoe  with  dark  trousers,  and  called  us 
to  witness  that  those  he  had  on  were  dark ;  but  he 
thought  he  remembered  that  it  was  the  black  shoe 


38  DAVID   HARUM 

which  pinched  him.  He  supposed  he  could  change  his 
trousers— and  so  on,  and  so  on,  al  fine,  da  capo,  ad  lib., 
sticking  out  first  one  foot  and  then  the  other,  lifting 
them  alternately  to  his  knee  for  scrutiny,  appealing 
now  to  Alice  and  now  to  me,  and  getting  more  hope- 
lessly bewildered  all  the  time.  It  went  on  in  that  way 
for,  it  seemed  to  me,  at  least  half  an  hour,  and  at  last 
I  said,  'Oh,  come  now,  Julius,  take  off  the  brown  shoe 
— it's  too  thin,  and  doesn't  go  with  your  dark  trousers, 
and  pinches  your  toe,  and  none  of  the  men  are  wearing 
them — and  just  put  on  the  other  black  one,  and  come 
along.  We're  all  suffocating  for  some  fresh  air,  and  if 
you  don't  get  started  pretty  soon  we  sha'n't  get  on 
deck  to-day.'  'Get  on  deck  !'  he  said,  looking  up  at 
me  with  a  puzzled  expression,  and  holding  fast  to  the 
brown  shoe  on  his  knee  with  both  hands,  as  if  he  were 
afraid  I  would  take  it  away  from  him  by  main  strength 
— 'get  on  deck  !  Why— why— I  believe  I'd  better  not 
go  out  this  morning,  don't  you  ? '  " 

"And  then? "  said  John,  after  a  pause. 

"Oh,"  she  replied,  "I  looked  at  Alice,  and  she  shook 
her  head  as  much  to  say,  'It's  no  use  for  the  present,' 
and  I  fled  the  place." 

"M'm ! "  muttered  John.  "He  must  have  been  a 
nice  traveling  companion.  Has  it  been  like  that  all 
the  time?" 

"Most  of  it,"  she  said,  "but  not  quite  all,  and  this 
morning  was  rather  an  exaggeration  of  the  regular 
thing.  But  getting  started  on  a  journey  was  usually 
pretty  awful.  Once  we  quite  missed  our  train  because 
he  couldn't  make  up  his  mind  whether  to  put  on  a  light 
overcoat  or  a  heavy  one.  I  finally  settled  the  question 
for  him,  but  we  were  just  too  late." 


DAVID   HARUM  39 

"You  must  be  a  very  amiable  person,"  remarked 
John. 

"Indeed,  I  am  not,"  she  declared,  "but  Julius  is,  and 
it's  almost  impossible  to  be  really  put  out  with  him, 
particularly  in  his  condition.  I  have  come  to  believe 
that  he  cannot  help  it,  and  he  submits  to  my  bullying 
with  such  sweetness  that  even  my  impatience  gives 
way." 

"Have  you  three  people  been  alone  together  all  the 
time  ? "  John  asked. 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  "except  for  four  or  five  weeks. 
We  visited  some  American  friends  in  Berlin,  the  Nol- 
lises,  for  a  fortnight,  and  after  our  visit 
to  them  they  traveled  with  us  for 
three  weeks  through  South  Germany 
and  Switzerland.  We  parted  with 
them  at  Metz  only  about  three  weeks 
since." 

"How  did  Mr.  Carling  seem  while  you 
were  all  together?"  asked  John,  looking 
keenly  at  her. 

"Oh,"  she  replied,  "he  was  more  like 
himself  than  I  have  seen  him  for  a 
long  time — since  he  began  to  break  down,  in  fact." 

He  turned  his  eyes  from  her  face  as  she  looked  up  at 
him,  and  as  he  did  not  speak  she  said  suggestively, 
"You  are  thinking  something  you  don't  quite  like  to 
say,  but  I  believe  I  know  pretty  nearly  what  it  is." 

"Yes?"  said  John,  with  a  query. 

"You  think  he  has  had  too  much  feminine  compan- 
ionship, or  had  it  too  exclusively.  Is  that  it?  You 
need  not  be  afraid  to  say  so." 

"Well,"  said  John,  "if  you  put  it  'too  exclusively,'  I 


40  DAVID  HARUM 

will  admit  that  there  was  something  of  the  sort  in  my 
mind ;  and/'  he  added,  "if  you  will  let  me  say  so,  it 
must  at  times  have  been  rather  hard  for  him  to  be  in- 
terested or  amused — that  it  must  have — that  is  to 
say-" 

"Oh,  say  it!"  she  exclaimed.  "It  must  have  been 
very  dull  for  him.  Is  that  it  ?  " 

"'Father,'"  said  John,  with  a  grimace,  "'I  cannot 
tell  a  lie  ! ' " 

"Oh,"  she  said,  laughing,  "your  hatchet  isn't  very 
sharp.  I  forgive  you.  But  really,"  she  added,  "I 
know  it  has  been  so.  You  will  laugh  when  I  tell  you 
the  one  particular  resource  we  fell  back  upon." 

"Bid  me  to  laugh,  and  I  will  laugh,"  said  John. 

"Euchre!"  she  said,  looking  at  him  defiantly. 
"Two-handed  euchre  !  We  have  played,  as  nearly  as  I 
can  estimate,  fifteen  hundred  games,  in  which  he  has 
held  both  bowers  and  the  ace  of  trumps— or  something 
equally  victorious — I  should  say  fourteen  hundred 
times.  Oh  ! "  she  cried,  with  an  expression  of  loath- 
ing, "may  I  never,  never,  never  see  a  card  again  as 
long  as  I  live  ! "  John  laughed  without  restraint,  and 
after  a  petulant  little  moue  she  joined  him. 

"May  I  light  up  my  pipe?"  he  said.  "I  will  get 
to  leeward." 

"I  shall  not  mind  in  the  least,"  she  assented. 

"By  the  way,"  he  asked,  "does  Mr.  Carling  smoke?" 

"He  used  to,"  she  replied,  "and  while  we  were  with 
the  Nollises  he  smoked  every  day,  but  after  we  left  them 
he  fell  back  into  the  notion  that  it  was  bad  for  him." 

John  filled  and  lighted  his  pipe  in  silence,  and  after 
a  satisfactory  puff  or  two  said:  "Will  Mr.  Carling  go 
in  to  dinner  to-night?" 


DAVID   HARUM  41 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  "I  think  he  will  if  it  is  no 
rougher  than  at  present." 

"It  will  probably  be  smoother,"  said  John.  "You 
must  introduce  me  to  him—" 

"Oh,"  she  interrupted,  "of  course  ;  but  it  will  hardly 
be  necessary,  as  Alice  and  I  have  spoken  so  often  to 
him  of  you — " 

"I  was  going  to  say,"  John  resumed,  "that  he  may 
possibly  let  me  take  him  off  your  hands  a  little,  and 
after  dinner  will  be  the  best  time.  I  think  if  I  can  get 
him  into  the  smoking-room,  that  a  cigar  and— and— 
something  hot  with  a  bit  of  lemon  peel  and  so  forth 
later  on  may  induce  him  to  visit  with  me  for  a  while, 
and  pass  the  evening,  or  part  of  it." 

"You  want  to  be  an  angel ! "  she  exclaimed.  "Oh, 
I— we— shall  be  so  obliged  !  I  know  it's  just  what  he 
wants— some  man  to  take  him  in  hand." 

"I'm  in  no  hurry  to  be  an  angel,"  said  John,  laugh- 
ing, and,  with  a  bow,  "It's  better  sometimes  to  be  near 
the  rose  than  to  be  the  rose,  and  you  are  proposing  to 
overpay  me  quite.  I  shall  enjoy  doing  what  I  proposed, 
if  it  be  possible." 

Their  talk  then  drifted  off  into  various  channels  as 
topics  suggested  themselves  until  the  ship's  bell 
sounded  the  luncheon  hour.  Miss  Blake  went  to  join 
her  sister  and  brother-in-law,  but  John  had  some  bread 
and  cheese  and  beer  in  the  smoking-room.  It  appeared 
that  the  ladies  had  better  success  than  in  the  morning, 
for  he  saw  them  later  on  in  their  steamer- chairs  with 
Mr.  Carling,  who  was  huddled  in  many  wraps,  with  the 
flaps  of  his  cap  down  over  his  ears.  All  the  chairs 
were  full— John's  included  (as  often  happens  to  easy- 
tempered  men  on  shipboard)— and  he  had  only  a  brief 


42  DAVID   HARUM 

colloquy  with  the  party.  He  noticed,  however,  that 
Mr.  Carling  had  on  the  russet  shoes,  and  he  wondered 
if  they  pinched  him.  In  fact,  though  he  couldn't  have 
said  exactly  why,  he  rather  hoped  that  they  did.  He 
had  just  that  sympathy  for  the  nerves  of  two-and-fifty 
which  is  to  be  expected  from  those  of  five-and-twenty 
— that  is,  very  little. 

When  he  went  in  to  dinner  the  Carlings  and  Miss 
Blake  had  been  at  table  some  minutes.  There  had 
been  the  usual  controversy  about  what  Mr.  Carling 
would  drink  with  his  dinner,  and  he  had  decided  upon 
Apollinaris  water.  But  Miss  Blake,  with  an  idea  of  her 
own,  had  given  an  order  for  champagne,  and  was  ex- 
hibiting some  consternation,  real  or  assumed,  at  the  fact 
of  having  a  whole  bottle  brought  in  with  the  cork  ex- 
tracted— a  customary  trick  at  sea. 

"I  hope  you  will  help  me  out,"  she  said  to  John  as 
he  bowed  and  seated  himself.  "'Some  one  has  blun- 
dered,' and  here  is  a  whole  bottle  of  champagne 
which  must  be  drunk  to  save  it.  Are  you  prepared 
to  help  turn  my,  or  somebody's,  blunder  into  hospi- 
tality?" 

"I  am  prepared  to  make  any  sacrifice,"  said  John, 
laughing,  "in  the  sacred  cause." 

"No  less  than  I  expected  of  you,"  she  said.  "No- 
blesse oblige!  Please  fill  your  glass." 

"Thanks,"  said  John.  "Permit  me,"  and  he  filled 
her  own  as  well. 

As  the  meal  proceeded  there  was  some  desultory  talk 
about  the  weather,  the  ship's  run,  and  so  on  5  but  Mrs. 
Carling  was  almost  silent,  and  her  husband  said  but  lit- 
tle more.  Even  Miss  Blake  seemed  to  have  something 
on  her  mind,  and  contributed  but  little  to  the  conversa- 


DAVID    HARUM  43 

tion.  Presently  Mr.  Carling  said,  "Mary,  do  you  think 
a  mouthful  of  wine  would  hurt  me  ?  " 

"Certainly  not,"  was  the  reply.  "It  will  do  you 
good,"  reaching  over  for  his  glass  and  pouring  the  wine. 

"That's  enough,  that's  enough  ! "  he  protested  as  the 
foam  came  up  to  the  rim  of  the  glass.  She  proceeded 
to  fill  it  up  to  the  brim  and  put  it  beside  him,  and 
later,  as  she  had  opportunity,  kept  it  replenished. 

As  the  dinner  concluded,  John  said  to  Mr.  Carling : 
"Won't  you  go  up  to  the  smoking-room  with  me  for 
coffee  ?  I  like  a  bit  of  tobacco  with  mine,  and  I  have 
some  really  good  cigars,  and  some  cigarettes— if  you 
prefer  them — that  I  can  vouch  for." 

As  usual,  when  the  unexpected  was  presented  to  his 
mind,  Mr.  Carling  passed  the  perplexity  on  to  his 
women-folk.  At  this  time,  however,  his  dinner  and 
the  two  glasses  of  wine  which  Miss  Blake  had  contrived 
that  he  should  swallow  had  braced  him  up,  and  John's 
suggestion  was  so  warmly  seconded  by  the  ladies  that, 
after  some  feeble  protests  and  misgivings,  he  yielded, 
and  John  carried  him  off. 

"I  hope  it  won't  upset  Julius,"  said  Mrs.  Carling 
doubtfully. 

"It  won't  do  anything  of  the  sort,"  her  sister  replied. 
"He  will  get  through  the  evening  without  worrying 
himself  and  you  into  fits,  and,  if  Mr.  Lenox  succeeds, 
you  won't  see  anything  of  him  till  ten  o'clock  or  after, 
and  not  then,  I  hope.  Mind,  you're  to  be  sound  asleep 
when  he  comes  in,  and  let  him  get  to  bed  without  any 
talk  at  all." 

"Why  do  you  say  'if  Mr.  Lenox  succeeds'?"  asked 
Mrs.  Carling. 

"It  was  his  suggestion,"  Miss  Blake  answered.     "We 


44  DAVID   HARUM 

had  been  talking  about  Julius,  and  he  finally  told  me 
he  thought  he  would  be  better  for  an  occasional  inter- 
val of  masculine  society,  and  I  quite  agreed  with  him. 
You  know  how  much  he  enjoyed  being  with  George 
Nollis,  and  how  much  like  himself  he  appeared." 

"That  is  true/'  said  Mrs.  Carling. 

"And  you  know  that  just  as  soon  as  he  was  alone 
again  with  us  two  women  he  began  backing  and  filling 
as  badly  as  ever.  I  believe  Mr.  Lenox  is  right,  and 
that  Julius  is  just  petticoated  to  death  between  us." 

"Did  Mr.  Lenox  say  that?"  asked  Mrs.  Carling  in- 
credulously. 

"No,"  said  her  sister,  laughing,  "he  didn't  make  use 
of  precisely  that  figure,  but  that  was  what  he  thought 
plainly  enough." 

"What  do  you  think  of  Mr.  Lenox?"  said  Mrs.  Car- 
ling  irrelevantly.  "Do  you  like  him?  I  thought  that 
he  looked  at  you  very  admiringly  once  or  twice  to- 
night," she  added,  with  her  eyes  on  her  sister's  face. 

"Well,"  said  Mary,  with  a  petulant  toss  of  the  head, 
"except  that  I've  had  about  an  hour's  talk  with  him, 
and  that  I  knew  him  when  we  were  children — at  least 
when  I  was  a  child — he  is  a  perfect  stranger  to  me,  and 
I  do  wish,"  she  added  in  a  tone  of  annoyance,  "that 
you  would  give  up  that  fad  of  yours,  that  every  man 
who  comes  along  is  going  to— to — be  a  nuisance." 

"He  seems  very  pleasant,"  said  Mrs.  Carling,  meekly 
ignoring  her  sister's  reproach. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  replied  indifferently,  "he's  pleasant 
enough.  Let  us  go  up  and  have  a  walk  on  deck.  I 
want  you  to  be  sound  asleep  when  Julius  comes  in." 


CHAPTER  V 

JOHN  found  his  humane  experiment  pleasanter  than  he 
expected.  Mr.  Carling,  as  was  to  be  anticipated,  de- 
murred a  little  at  the  coffee,  and  still  more  at  the  cig- 
arette ;  but  having  his  appetite  for  tobacco  aroused, 
and  finding  that  no  alarming  symptoms  ensued,  he  fol- 
lowed it  with  a  cigar,  and  later  on  was  induced  to  go 
the  length  of  "Scotch  and  soda,"  under  the  pleasant 
effect  of  which — and  John's  sympathetic  efforts — he 
was  for  the  time  transformed,  the  younger  man  being 
surprised  to  find  him  a  man  of  interesting  experience, 
considerable  reading,  and,  what  was  most  surprising,  a 
jolly  sense  of  humor  and  a  fund  of  anecdotes  which  he 
related  extremely  well.  The  evening  was  a  decided 
success,  perhaps  the  best  evidence  of  it  coming  at  the 


46  DAVID   HARUM 

last,  when,  at  John's  suggestion  that  they  supplement 
their  modest  potations  with  a  "nightcap,"  Mr.  Carling 
cheerfully  assented  upon  the  condition  that  they  should 
"have  it  with  him  "  ;  and  as  he  went  along  the  deck  after 
saying  good-night,  John  was  positive  that  he  heard  a 
whistled  tune. 

The  next  day  was  equally  fine,  but  during  the  night 
the  ship  had  run  into  the  swell  of  a  storm,  and  in  the 
morning  there  was  more  motion  than  the  weaker  ones 
could  relish.  The  sea  grew  quieter  as  the  day  ad- 
vanced. John  was  early,  and  finished  his  breakfast 
before  Miss  Blake  came  in.  He  found  her  on  deck 
about  ten  o'clock.  She  gave  him  her  hand  as  they  said 
good-morning,  and  he  turned  and  walked  by  her  side. 

"How  is  your  brother-in-law  this  morning?"  he 
inquired. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  laughing,  "he's  in  a  mixture  of  feel- 
ing very  well  and  feeling  that  he  ought  not  to  feel  so, 
but,  as  they  are  coming  up  pretty  soon,  it  would  ap- 
pear that  the  misgivings  are  not  overwhelming.  He 
came  in  last  night,  and  retired  without  saying  a  word. 
My  sister  pretended  to  be  asleep.  She  says  he  went 
to  sleep  at  once,  and  that  she  was  awake  at  intervals 
and  knows  that  he  slept  like  a  top.  He  won't  make 
any  very  sweeping  admissions,  however,  but  has  gone 
so  far  as  to  concede  that  he  had  a  very  pleasant  even- 
ing— which  is  going  a  long  way  for  him — and  to  say 
that  you  are  a  very  agreeable  young  man.  There !  I 
didn't  intend  to  tell  you  that,  but  you  have  been  so 
good  that  perhaps  so  much  as  a  second-hand  compli- 
ment is  no  more  than  your  due." 

"Thank  you  very  much,"  said  John.  "Mr.  Carliug  is 
evidently  a  very  discriminating  person.  Really  it 


DAVID   HARUM  47 

wasn't  good  of  me  at  all.  I  was  quite  the  gainer,  for 
he  entertained  me  more  than  I  did  him.  We  had  a 
very  pleasant  evening,  and  I  hope  we  shall  have  more 
of  them— I  do,  indeed.  I  got  an  entirely  different  im- 
pression of  him,"  he  added. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "I  can  imagine  that  you  did.  He 
can  be  very  agreeable,  and  he  is  really  a  man  of  a  great 
deal  of  character  when  he  is  himself.  He  has  been 
goodness  itself  to  me,  and  has  managed  my  affairs  for 
years.  Even  to-day  his  judgment  in  business  matters 
is  wonderfully  sound.  If  it  had  not  been 
for  him,"  she  continued,  "I  don't  know 
but  I  should  have  been  a  pauper.  My 
father  left  a  large  estate,  but  he  died  very 
suddenly,  and  his  affairs  were  very  much 
spread  out  and  involved,  and  had  to  be 
carried  along.  Julius  put  himself  into 
the  breach,  and  not  only  saved  our  for- 
tunes, but  has  considerably  increased  them.  Of  course, 
Alice  is  his  wife,  but  I  feel  very  grateful  to  him  on  my 
own  account.  I  did  not  altogether  appreciate  it  at  the 
time,  but  now  I  shudder  to  think  that  I  might  have 
had  either  to  'fend  for  myself  or  be  dependent." 

"I  don't  think  that  dependence  would  have  suited 
your  book,"  was  John's  comment  as  he  took  in  the 
lines  of  her  clear-cut  face. 

"No,"  she  replied,  "and  I  thank  Heaven  that  I  have 
not  had  to  endure  it.  I  am  not,"  she  added,  "so  im- 
pressed with  what  money  procures  for  people  as  what 
it  saves  them  from." 

"Yes,"  said  John,  "I  think  your  distinction  is  just. 
To  possess  it  is  to  be  free  from  some  of  the  most  dis- 
agreeable apprehensions,  certainly,  but  I  confess, 


48  DAVID   HARUM 

whether  to  my  credit  or  my  shame  I  don't  know,  that  I 
have  never  thought  much  about  it.  I  certainly  am 
not  rich  positively,  and  I  haven't  the  faintest  notion 
whether  I  may  or  not  be  prospectively.  I  have  always 
had  as  much  as  I  really  needed,  and 
perhaps  more,  but  I  know  absolutely 
nothing  about  the  future." 

They 'were  leaning  over  the  rail  on 
the  port  side. 

"I  should  think,"  she  said  after  a 
moment,  looking  at  him  thoughtfully, 
"that  it  was,  if  you  will  not  consider  me 
presuming,  a  matter  about  which  you 
might  have  some  justifiable  curiosity." 

"Oh,  not  at  all,"  he  assured  her,  step- 
ping to  leeward  and  producing  a  cigar. 
"I  have  had  some  such  stirrings  of  late. 
And  please  don't  think  me  an  incorrigi- 
ble idler.  I  spent  nearly  two  years  in 
a  down-town  office,  and  earned— well,  say 
half  my  salary.  In  fact,  my  business  in- 
stincts were  so  strong  that  I  left  college 
after  my  second  year  for  that  purpose ; 
but  seeing  no  special  chance  of  advance- 
ment in  the  race  for  wealth,  and  as  my 
father  seemed  rather  to  welcome  the  idea, 
V  I  broke  off  and  went  over  to  Germany. 

I  haven't  been  quite  idle,  though  I  should  be  puzzled, 
I  admit,  to  find  a  market  for  what  I  have  to  offer  to 
the  world.  Would  you  be  interested  in  a  schedule 
of  my  accomplishments  ?  " 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "I  should  be  charmed ;  but  as  I  am 
every  moment  expecting  the  advent  of  my  family,  and 


DAVID   HARUM  49 

as  I  am  relied  upon  to  locate  them  and  tuck  them  up, 
I'm  afraid  I  shall  not  have  time  to  hear  it." 

"No,"  he  said,  laughing,  "it's  quite  too  long." 

She  was  silent  for  some  moments,  gazing  down  into 
the  water,  apparently  debating  something  in  her  mind, 
and  quite  unconscious  of  John's  scrutiny.  Finally  she 
turned  to  him  with  a  little  laugh.  "You  might  begin 
on  your  list,  and  if  I  am  called  away  you  can  finish  it 
at  another  time." 

"I  hope  you  didn't  think  I  was  speaking  in  earnest," 
he  said. 

"No,"  she  replied,  "I  did  not  think  you  really  in- 
tended to  unpack  your  wares ;  but,  speaking  seriously 
—and  at  the  risk,  I  fear,  that  you  may  think  me 
rather  '  cheeky/  if  I  may  be  allowed  that  ex- 
pression—I know  a  good  many  men  in  America, 
and  I  think  that  without  an  exception  they  are 
professional  men  or  business  men,  or,  being 
neither— and  I  know  but  few  such— have  a  com- 
petence or  more  ;  and  I  was  wondering  just  now, 
after  what  you  told  me,  what  a  man  like  you 
would  or  could  do  if  he  were  thrown  upon  his 
own  resources.  I'm  afraid  that  is  rather  frank 
for  the  acquaintance  of  a  day,  isn't  it?"  she 
asked,  with  a  slight  flush,  "but  it  really  is  not 
so  personal  as  it  may  sound  to  you." 

"My  dear  Miss  Blake,"  he  replied,  "our  ac- 
quaintance goes  back  at  least  ten  years.  Please 
let  that  fact  count  for  something  in  your  mind. 
The  truth  is,  I  have  done  some  wondering  along  that 
same  line  myself  without  coming  to  any  satisfactory 
conclusion.  I  devoutly  hope  I  may  not  be  so  thrown 
absolutely,  for  the  truth  is  I  haven't  a  marketable  com- 


50  DAVID   HARUM 

modity.  '  A  little  Latin,  and  less  Greek/  German  and 
French  enough  to  read  and  understand  and  talk— on 
the  surface  of  things — and  what  mathematics,  history, 
et  cetera,  I  have  not  forgotten.  I  know  the  piano  well 
enough  to  read  and  play  an  accompaniment  after  a 
fashion,  and  I  have  had  some  good  teaching  for  the 
voice,  and  some  experience  in  singing,  at  home  and 
abroad.  In  fact,  I  come  nearer  to  a  market  there,  I 
think,  than  in  any  other  direction  perhaps.  I  have 
given  some  time  to  fencing  in  various  schools,  and 
before  I  left  home  Billy  Williams  would  sometimes 
speak  encouragingly  of  my  progress  with  the  gloves. 
There !  that  is  my  list,  and  not  a  dollar  in  it  from 
beginning  to  end,  I'm  afraid." 

"Who  is  Billy  Williams?"  she  asked. 

"Billy,"  said  John,  "is  the  very  mild-mannered  and 
gentlemanlike  ' bouncer'  at  the  Altman  House,  an  ex- 
prize-fighter,  and  about  the  most  accomplished  member 
of  his  profession  of  his  day  and  weight,  who  is  employed 
to  keep  order  and,  if  necessary,  to  thrust  out  the  riot- 
ous who  would  disturb  the  contemplations  of  the  lovers 
of  art  that  frequent  the  bar  of  that  hotel." 

It  was  to  be  seen  that  Miss  Blake  was  not  particularly 
impressed  by  this  description  of  Billy  and  his  functions, 
upon  which  she  made  no  comment.  "You  have  not 
included  in  your  list,"  she  remarked,  "what  you  ac- 
quired in  the  down-town  office  you  told  me  of." 

"No ;  upon  my  word,  I  had  forgotten  that,  and  it's 
about  the  only  thing  of  use  in  the  whole  category,"  he 
answered.  "If  I  were  put  to  it,  and  could  find  a  place, 
I  think  I  might  earn  fifty  dollars  a  month  as  a  clerk 
or  messenger,  or  something.  Hullo  !  here  are  your 
people." 


DAVID   HARUM 


51 


He  went  forward  with  his  companion  and  greeted 
Mrs.  Carling  and  her  husband,  who  returned  his  good- 
morning  with  a  feeble  smile,  and  submitted  to  his 
ministrations  in  the  matter  of  chair  and 
rugs  with  an  air  of  unresisting  invalidism 
which  was  almost  too  obvious,  he  thought. 
But  after  luncheon  John  managed  to  in- 
duce him  to  walk  for  a  while,  to  smoke  a 
cigarette,  and  finally  to  brave  the  perils 
of  a  sherry  and  bitters  before  dinner. 
The  ladies  had  the  afternoon  to  them- 
selves. John  had  no  chance  of  a  further 
visit  with  Mary  during  the  day,  a  loss 
only  partially  made  good  to  him  by  a  very  approving 
smile  and  a  remark  which  she  made  to  him  at  dinner, 
that  he  must  be  a  lineal  descendant  of  the  Samaritan. 
Mr.  Carling  submitted  himself  to  him  for  the 
evening.  Indeed,  it  came  about  that  for 
the  rest  of  the  voyage  he  had  rather  more  of 
the  company  of  that  gentleman,  who  fairly 
attached  himself  to  him,  than,  under  all  the 
circumstances,  he  cared  for ;  but  the  grati- 
tude of  the  ladies  was  so  cordial  that  he  felt 
paid  for  some  sacrifices  of  his  inclinations. 
And  there  was  an  hour  or  so  every  morning 
— for  the  fine  weather  lasted  through— which 
he  spent  with  Mary  Blake,  with  increasing 
interest  and  pleasure,  and  he  found  himself 
inwardly  rejoicing  over  a  mishap  to  the  en- 
gine which,  though  of  no  very  great  mag- 
nitude, would  retard  the  passage  by  a  couple  of  days. 
There  can  hardly  be  any  conditions  more  favorable 
to  the  forming  of  acquaintanceships,  friendships,  and 
5 


52  DAVID   HARUM 

even  more  tender  relations,  than  are  afforded  by  the 
life  on  board  ship.  There  is  opportunity,  propinquity, 
and  the  community  of  interest  which  breaks  down  the 
barriers  of  ordinary  reserve.  These  relations,  to  be 
sure,  are  not  always  of  the  most  lasting  character,  and 
not  infrequently  are  practically  ended  before  the  parties 
thereto  are  out  of  the  custom-house  officer's  hands,  and 
fade  into  nameless  oblivion,  unless  one  happens  to  run 


across  the  passenger  list  among  one's  souvenirs.  But 
there  are  exceptions.  If  at  this  time  the  question  had 
been  asked  our  friend,  even  by  himself,  whether,  to  put 
it  plainly,  he  were  in  love  with  Mary  Blake,  he  would, 
no  doubt,  have  strenuously  denied  it ;  but  it  is  certain 
that  if  any  one  had  said  or  intimated  that  any  feature 
or  characteristic  of  hers  was  faulty  or  susceptible  of 
any  change  for  the  better,  he  would  have  secretly  dis- 


DAVID   HARUM  53 

liked  that  person,  and  entertained  the  meanest  opinion 
of  that  person's  mental  and  moral  attributes.  He 
would  have  wished  the  voyage  prolonged  indefinitely, 
or,  at  any  rate,  as  long  as  the  provisions  held  out. 

It  has  been  remarked  by  some  one  that  all  mundane 
things  come  to  an  end  sooner  or  later,  and,  so  far  as  my 
experience  goes,  it  bears  out  that  statement.  The  en- 
gines were  successfully  repaired,  and  the  ship  eventually 
came  to  anchor  outside  the  harbor  about  eleven  o'clock 
on  the  night  of  the  last  day.  Mary  and  John  were 
standing  together  at  the  forward  rail.  There  had  been 
but  little  talk  between  them,  and  only  of  a  desultory 
and  impersonal  character.  As  the  anchor-chain  rattled 
in  the  hawse-hole,  John  said,  "Well,  that  ends  it." 

"What  ends  what?"  she  asked. 

"The  voyage,  and  the  holiday,  and  the  episode, 
and  lots  of  things,"  he  replied.  "We  have  come  to 
anchor." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "the  voyage  is  over,  that  is  true  ;  but, 
for  my  part,  if  the  last  six  months  can  be  called  a  holi- 
day, its  end  is  welcome,  and  I  should  think  you  might 
be  glad  that  your  holiday  is  over,  too.  But  I  don't 
quite  understand  what  you  mean  by  'the  episode  and 
lots  of  things.' " 

There  was  an  undertone  in  her  utterance  which  her 
companion  did  not  quite  comprehend,  though  it  was 
obvious  to  him. 

"The  episode  of— of— our  friendship,  if  I  may  call  it 
so,"  he  replied. 

"I  call  it  so,"  she  said  decisively.  "You  have  cer- 
tainly been  a  friend  to  all  of  us.  This  episode  is  over, 
to  be  sure,  but  is  there  any  more  than  that?" 

"Somebody  says  that  'friendship  is  largely  a  matter 


54 


DAVID   HARUM 


of  streets,' "  said  John  gloomily.     "To-morrow  you  will 
go  your  way  and  I  shall  go  mine." 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  rather  sharply,  "that  is  true 
enough ;  but  if  that  cynical  quotation  of  yours  has  any- 
thing in  it,  it's  equally  true,  isn't  it,  that  friendship  is  a 
matter  of  cabs,  and  street-cars,  and  the  elevated 
road  ?    Of  course,  we  can  hardly  be  expected 
to  look  you  up,  but  Sixty-ninth  Street  isn't 
exactly  in  California,  and  the  whole  question 
;,-   lies  with  yourself.     I  don't  know  if  you  care  to 
be  told  so,  but  Julius  and  my  sister  like 
you  very  much,  and  will  welcome  you 
heartily  always." 

"Thanks,  very  much  ! "  said  John,  star- 
ing straight  out  in  front  of  him,  and 
forming  a  determination  that  Sixty-ninth 
Street  should  see  but  precious  little  of 
him.  She  gave  a  side  glance  at  him  as  he 
did  not  speak  further.  There  was  light 
enough  to  see  the  expression  of  his  mouth, 
and  she  read  his  thought  almost  in  words. 
She  believed  that  she  detected  a  sug- 
gestion of  sentimentality  on  his  part, 
which  she  resolved  to  keep  strictly  in 
abeyance ;  but  before  she  realized  it  she  had  taken  an 
attitude  of  coolness  and  a  tone  which  was  almost  sar- 
castic ;  and  then  she  perceived  that,  so  far  as  results 
were  apparent,  she  had  carried  matters  somewhat 
further  than  she  intended.  Her  heart  smote  her  a  little, 
too,  to  think  that  he  was  hurt.  She  really  liked  him 
very  much,  and  contritely  recalled  how  kind  and 
thoughtful  and  unselfish  he  had  been,  and  how  helpful, 
and  she  knew  that  it  had  been  almost  wholly  for  her. 


DAVID   HARUM  55 

Yes,  she  was  willing — and  glad — to  think  so.  But  while 
she  wished  that  she  had  taken  a  different  line  at  the 
outset,  she  hated  desperately  to  make  any  concession, 
and  the  seconds  of  their  silence  grew  into  minutes.  She 
stole  another  glance  at  his  face.  It  was  plain  that 
negotiations  for  harmony  would  have  to  begin  with  her. 
Finally  she  said  in  a  quiet  voice  : 

U(  Thanks,  very  much,'  is  an  entirely  polite  expres- 
sion, but  it  isn't  very  responsive." 

"I  thought  it  met  your  cordiality  quite  half-way," 
was  the  rejoinder.  "Of  course,  I  am  glad  to  be  assured 
of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Carling's  regard,  and  that  they  would 
be  glad  to  see  me,  but  I  think  I  might  have  been  justi- 
fied in  hoping  that  you  would  go  a  little  further,  don't 
you  think  1 " 

He  looked  at  her  as  he  asked  the  question,  but  she 
did  not  turn  her  head.  Presently  she  said  in  a  low 
voice,  and  slowly,  as  if  weighing  her  words  : 

"Will  it  be  enough  if  I  say  that  I  shall  be  very  sorry 
if  you  do  not  come  ?  " 

He  put  his  left  hand  upon  her  right,  which  was  rest- 
ing 011  the  rail,  and  for  two  seconds  she  let  it  stay. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "  thanks -very- much  !" 

"I  must  go  now,"  she  said,  turning  toward  him,  and 
for  a  moment  she  looked  searchingly  in  his  face.  "Good- 
night," she  said,  giving  him  her  hand,  and  John  looked 
after  her  as  she  walked  down  the  deck,  and  he  knew 
how  it  was  with  him. 


CHAPTER  VI 

JOHN  saw  Miss  Blake  the  next  morning  in  the  saloon 
among  the  passengers  in  line  for  the  customs  official. 
It  was  an  easy  conjecture  that  Mr.  Carling's  nerves  were 
not  up  to  committing  himself  to  a  "declaration  "  of  any 
sort,  and  that  Miss  Blake  was  undertaking  the  duty  for 
the  party.  He  did  not  see  her  again  until  he  had  had 
his  luggage  passed  and  turned  it  over  to  an  expressman. 
As  he  was  on  his  way  to  leave  the  wharf  he  came  across 
the  group,  and  stopped  to  greet  them  and  ask  if  he 
could  be  of  service,  and  was  told  that  their  house-man 
had  everything  in  charge,  and  that  they  were  just  going 
to  their  carriage,  which  was  waiting.  "And,"  said  Mjss 
Blake,  "if  you  are  going  up-town,  we  can  offer  you  a 
seat." 

"Sha'n't  I  discommode  you?"  he  asked.  "If  you 
are  sure  I  shall  not,  I  shall  be  glad  to  be  taken  as  far  as 
Madison  Avenue  and  Thirty-third  Street,  for  I  suppose 
that  will  be  your  route." 

"Quite  sure,"  she  replied,  seconded  by  the  Carlings  ; 
and  so  it  happened  that  John  went  directly  home  in- 
stead of  going  first  to  his  father's  office.  The  weather 
was  a  chilly  drizzle,  and  he  was  glad  to  be  spared  the 
discomfort  of  going  about  in  it  with  hand-bag,  overcoat, 
and  umbrella ;  and  he  felt  a  certain  justification  in  con- 
cluding that,  after  two  years,  a  few  hours  more  or  less 
under  the  circumstances  would  make  but  little  differ- 
ence. And  then,  too,  the  prospect  of  half  or  three 
quarters  of  an  hour  in  Miss  Blake's  company,  the 
Carlings  notwithstanding,  was  a  temptation  to  be  wel- 


DAVID   HARUM  57 

corned.  But  if  lie  had  hoped  or  expected,  as  perhaps 
would  have  been  not  unnatural,  to  discover  in  that 
young  woman's  air  any  hint  or  trace  of  the  feeling  she 
had  exhibited,  or,  perhaps  it  should  be  said,  to  a  degree 
permitted  to  show  itself,  disappointment  was  his  por- 
tion. Her  manner  was  as  much  in  contrast  with  that 
of  the  last  days  of  their  voyage  together  as  was  the 
handsome  street  gown  and  hat  in  which  she  was  now 
attired  to  the  dress  and  head-gear  of  her  steamer  cos- 
tume ;  and  it  almost  seemed  to  him  as  if  the  contrasts 
bore  some  relation  to  each  other.  After  the  question 
of  the  carriage  windows — whether  they  should  be  up  or 
down,  either  or  both,  and  how  much — had  been  settled, 
and,  as  usual  in  such  dilemmas,  by  Miss  Blake,  the  drive 
up-town  was  comparatively  a  silent  one.  John's  mind 
was  occupied  with  sundry  reflections  and  speculations, 
of  many  of  which  his  companion  was  the  subject,  and  to 
some  extent  in  noting  the  changes  in  the  streets  and 
buildings  which  an  absence  of  two  years  made  notice- 
able to  him. 

Mary  looked  steadily  out  of  window,  lost  in  her  own 
thoughts,  save  for  an  occasional  brief  response  to  some 
casual  comment  or  remark  of  John's.  Mr.  Carling  had 
muffled  himself  past  all  talking,  and  his  wife  preserved 
the  silence  which  was  characteristic  of  her  when  un- 
urged. 

John  was  set  down  at  Thirty -third  Street,  and,  as  he 
made  his  adieus,  Mrs.  Carling  said,  "Do  come  and  see 
us  as  soon  as  you  can,  Mr.  Lenox "  ;  but  Miss  Blake 
simply  said  "Good-by"  as  she  gave  him  her  hand  for 
an  instant,  and  he  went  on  to  his  father's  house. 

He  let  himself  in  with  the  latch-key  which  he  had 
carried  through  all  his  absence,  but  was  at  once  encoun- 


DAVID  HARUM 


tered  by  Jeffrey,  who,  with  his  wife,  had  for  years  con- 
stituted the  domestic  staff  of  the  Lenox  household. 

"Well,  Jeff,"  said  John,  as  he  shook  hands  heartily 
with  the  old  servant,  "how  are  you1?  and  how  is  Ann? 
You  don't  look  a  day  older,  and  the 
climate  seems  to  agree  with  you,  eh?" 
"You're  welcome  home,    Mr.  John," 
replied  Jeffrey ;  "an'  thank  you,  sir,  me 
an'  Ann  is  very  well,  sir.     It's  a  pleasure 
to  see  you  again,  an'  home — it  is,  indeed." 
"Thank  you,  Jeff,"  said  John.     "It's 
rather  nice  to  be  back.      Is  my  room 
ready?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Jeffrey,  "I  think  it's 
all  right,  though  we  thought  that  maybe 
it'd  be  later  in  the  day  when  you  got  here,  sir.  We 
thought  maybe  you'd  go  to  Mr.  Lenox's  office  first." 

"I  did  intend  to,"  said  John,  mounting  the  stairs, 
followed  by  Jeffrey  with  his  bag,  "but  I  had  a  chance 
to  drive  up  with  some  friends,  and  the  day  is  so  beastly 
that  I  took  advantage  of  it.  How  is  my  father?"  he 
asked  after  entering  the  chamber,  which  struck  him  as 
being  so  strangely  familiar  and  so  familiarly  strange. 

"Well,  sir,"  said  Jeffrey,  "he's  much  about  the  same 
most  ways,  an'  then  again  he's  different,  too.  Seeing 
him  every  day,  perhaps  I  wouldn't  notice  so  much  ;  but 
if  I  was  to  say  that  he's  kind  of  quieter,  perhaps  that'd 
be  what  I  mean,  sir." 

"Well,"  said  John,  smiling,  "my  father  was  about  the 
quietest  person  I  ever  knew,  and  if  he's  grown  more  so 
—what  do  you  mean?" 

"Well,  sir,"  replied  the  man,  "I  notice  at  table,  sir,  for 
one  thing.  We've  been  alone  here  off  and  on  a  good  bit, 


DAVID   HARUM  59 

sir,  an'  he  used  always  to  have  a  pleasant  word  or  two 
to  say  to  me,  an'  maybe  to  ask  me  questions  an'  that, 
sir ;  but  for  a  long  time  lately  he  hardly  seems  to  notice 
me.  Of  course,  there  ain't  any  need  of  his  saying  any- 


thing, because  I  know  all  he  wants,  seeing  I've  waited 
on  him  so  long,  but  it's  different  in  a  way,  sir." 

"Does  he  go  out  in  the  evening  to  his  club?"  asked 
John. 

"Very  rarely,  sir,"  said  Jeffrey.  "He  mostly  goes  to 
his  room  after  dinner,  an'  often  I  hear  him  walking  up 
an'  down,  up  an'  down ;  an',  sir,"  he  added,  "you  know 


60  DAVID   HARUM 

he  often  used  to  have  some  of  his  friends  to  dine  with 
him,  an'  that  ain't  happened  in,  I  should  guess,  for  a 
year." 

"Have  things  gone  wrong  with  him  in  any  way?" 
said  John,  a  sudden  anxiety  overcoming  some  reluc- 
tance to  question  a  servant  on  such  a  subject. 

"You  mean  about  business,  and  such  like?"  replied 
Jeffrey.  "No,  sir,  not  so  far  as  I  know.  You  know, 
Mr.  John,  sir,  that  I  pay  all  the  house  accounts,  an' 
there  hasn't  never  been  no — no  shortness,  as  I  might 
say  ;  but  we're  living  a  bit  simpler  than  we  used  to— in 
the  matter  of  wine  an'  such  like — an',  as  I  told  you,  we 
don't  have  comp'ny  no  more." 

"Is  that  all?"  asked  John,  with  some  relief. 

"Well,  sir,"  was  the  reply,  "perhaps  it's  because  Mr. 
Lenox  is  getting  older  an'  don't  care  so  much  about 
such  things  ;  but  I  have  noticed  that  he  hasn't  had  any- 
thing new  from  the  tailor  in  a  long  time,  an'  really,  sir, 
though  perhaps  I  oughtn't  to  say  it,  his  things  is  getting 
a  bit  shabby,  sir,  an'  he  used  to  be  always  so  partic'lar." 

John  got  up  and  walked  over  to  the  window  which 
looked  out  at  the  rear  of  the  house.  The  words  of  the 
old  servant  disquieted  him,  notwithstanding  that  there 
was  nothing,  so  far,  that  could  not  be  accounted  for  with- 
out alarm.  Jeffrey  waited  for  a  moment  and  then 
asked : 

"Is  there  anything  I  can  do  for  you,  Mr.  John ?  Will 
you  be  having  luncheon  here,  sir?" 

"No,  thank  you,  Jeff,"  said  John,  "nothing  more 
now  j  and  I  will  lunch  here.  I'll  come  down  and  see 
Ann  presently." 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Jeffrey,  and  withdrew. 

The  view  from  the  back  windows  of  most  city  houses 


DAVID   HARUM  61 

is  not  calculated  to  arouse  enthusiasm  at  the  best  of 
times,  and  the  day  was  singularly  dispiriting  :  a  sky  of 
lead  and  a  drizzling  rain,  which  emphasized  the  squalor 
of  the  back  yards  in  view.  It  was  all  very  depressing. 
Jeffrey's  talk,  though  inconclusive,  had  stirred  in  John's 
mind  an  uneasiness  which  was  near  to  apprehension. 
He  turned  and  walked  about  the  familiar 
room,  recognizing  the  well-known  furni-  ijj ••• 
ture,  his  mother's  picture  over  the  mantel,  ^^jj^^' 
the  book -shelves  filled  with  his  boyhood's  IIP?|j|jpi^ 
accumulations,  the  well-remembered  pat- 
tern of  the  carpet,  and  the  wall-paper — 
nothing  was  changed.  It  was  all  as  he  had 
left  it  two  years  ago,  and  for  the  time  it 
seemed  as  if  he  had  merely  dreamed  the 
life  and  experiences  of  those  years.  In- 
deed, it  was  with  difficulty 
that  he  recalled  any  of 
them  for  the  moment. 
And  then  suddenly  there 
came  into  his  mind  the 
thought  that  he  was  at 
the  beginning  of  a  new 
epoch— that  on  this  day 
his  boyhood  ended ;  for  up  to  then  he  had  been  but  a 
boy.  The  thought  was  very  vivid.  It  had  come,  the 
time  when  he  must  take  upon  himself  the  responsi- 
bilities of  his  own  life,  and  make  it  for  himself ;  the  time 
which  he  had  looked  forward  to  as  to  come  some  day, 
but  not  hitherto  at  any  particular  moment,  and  so  not 
to  be  very  seriously  considered. 

It  has  been  said  that  life  had  always  been  made  easy 
for  him,  and  that  he  had  accepted  the  situation  without 


62  DAVID   HARUM 

protest.  To  easy-going  natures  the  thought  of  any 
radical  change  in  the  current  of  affairs  is  usually  un- 
welcome, but  he  was  too  young  to  find  it  really  repug- 
nant ;  and  then,  too,  as  he  walked  about  the  room  with 
his  hands  in  his  pockets,  it  was  further  revealed  to  him 
that  he  had  recently  found  a  motive  and  impulse  such 
as  he  had  never  had  before.  He  recalled  the  talk  that 
he  had  had  with  the  companion  of  his  voyage.  He 
thought  of  her  as  one  who  could  be  tender  to  misfortune 
and  charitable  to  incapacity,  but  who  would  have 
nothing  but  scorn  for  shiftlessness  and  malingering  ;  and 
he  realized  that  he  had  never  cared  for  anything  so 
much  as  for  the  good  opinion  of  that  young  woman. 
No,  there  should  be  for  him  no  more  sauntering  in  the 
vales  and  groves,  no  more  of  loitering  or  dallying.  He 
would  take  his  place  in  the  working  world,  and  perhaps 
— some  day — 

The  thought  came  to  him  with  the  impact  of  a  blow  : 
"What  could  he  do?  What  work  was  there  for  him? 
How  could  he  pull  his  weight  in  the  boat  ?  All  his  life 
he  had  depended  upon  some  one  else,  with  easy-going 
thoughtlessness.  Hardly  ever  had  it  really  occurred  to 
him  that  he  might  have  to  make  a  career  for  himself. 
Of  business  he  had  thought  as  something  which  he 
should  undertake  some  time,  but  it  was  always  a  busi- 
ness ready  made  to  his  hand,  with  plenty  of  capital  not 
of  his  own  acquiring— something  for  occupation,  not  of 
necessity.  It  came  home  to  him  that  his  father  was 
his  only  resource,  and  that  of  his  father's  affairs  he 
knew  next  to  nothing. 

In  addition  to  his  affection  for  him,  he  had  always 
had  an  unquestioning  confidence  in  his  father.  It  was 
his  earliest  recollection,  and  he  still  retained  it  to  an 


DAVID   HARUM  63 

almost  childish  extent.  There  had  always  been  plenty. 
His  own  allowance,  from  time  to  time  increased,  though 
never  extravagant,  had  always  been  ample  ;  and  on  the 
one  occasion  when  he  had  grievously  exceeded  it  the 
excess  had  been  paid  with  no  more  protest  than  a  gentle 
"I  think  you  ought  not  to  have  done  this."  The  two 
had  lived  together,  when  John  was  at  home,  without 
ostentation  or  any  appearance  of  style,  but  with  every 
essential  of  luxury.  The  house  and  its  furnishings  were 
old-fashioned,  but  everything  was  of  the  best,  and  when 
three  or  four  of  the  elder  man's  friends  would  come  to 
dine,  as  happened  occasionally,  the  contents  of  the 
cellar  made  them  look  at  one  another  over  their  glasses. 
Mr.  Lenox  was  very  reticent  in  all  matters  relating  to 
himself,  and  in  his  talks  with  his  son,  which  were  mostly 
at  the  table,  rarely  spoke  of  business  matters  in  general, 
and  almost  never  of  his  own.  He  had  read  well,  and 
was  fond  of  talking  of  his  reading  when  he  felt  in  the 
vein  of  talking,  which  was  not  always ;  but  John  had 
invariably  found  him  ready  with  comment  and  sym- 
pathy upon  the  topics  in  which  he  himself  had  interest, 
and  there  was  a  strong  if  undemonstrative  affection 
between  the  father  and  son. 

It  was  not  strange,  perhaps,  all  things  considered, 
that  John  had  come  even  to  nearly  six-and-twenty  with 
no  more  settled  intentions— that  his  boyhood  should 
have  been  so  long.  He  was  not  at  all  of  a  reckless  dis- 
position, and,  notwithstanding  the  desultory  way  in 
which  he  had  spent  time,  he  had  strong  mental  and 
moral  fiber,  and  was  capable  of  feeling  deeply  and  en- 
duringly.  He  had  been  desultory,  but  never  before  had 
he  had  much  reason  or  warning  against  it.  But  now, 
he  reflected,  a  time  had  come.  Work  he  must,  if  only 


64  DAVID   HARUM 

for  work's  sake,  and  work  he  would ;  and  there  was  a 
touch  of  self-reproach  in  the  thought  of  his  father's 
increasing  years  and  of  his  lonely  life.  He  might  have 
been  a  help  and  a  companion  during  those  two  years  of 
his  not  very  fruitful  European  sojourn,  and  he  would 
lose  no  time  in  nnd'ing  out  what  there  was  for  him  to 
do,  and  in  setting  about  it. 


CHAPTEE  VII 

THE  day  seemed  very  long.  He  ate  his  luncheon,  hav- 
ing first  paid  a  visit  to  Ann,  who  gave  him  an  effusive 
welcome.  Jeffrey  waited,  and  during  the  meal  they 
had  some  further  talk,  and  among  other  things  John 
said  to  him,  "Does  my  father  dress  for  dinner  nowa- 
days?" 

"No,  sir,"  was  the  reply.  "I  don't  know  when  I've 
seen  your  father  in  his  evening  clothes,  sir — not  for  a 
long  time,  an'  then  maybe  two  or  three  times  the  past 
year  when  he  was  going  out  to  dinner,  but  not  here, 
sir.  Maybe  it'll  be  different  now  you're  back  again, 
sir." 

After  luncheon  John's  luggage  arrived,  and  he  super- 
intended the  unpacking,  but  that  employment  was  com- 
paratively brief.  The  day  dragged  with  him.  Truly 
his  home-coming  was  rather  a  dreary  affair.  How 
different  had  been  yesterday,  and  the  day  before,  and 
all  those  days  before  when  he  had  so  enjoyed  the  ship 
life,  and  most  of  all  the  daily  hour  or  more  of  the  com- 
panionship which  had  grown  to  be  of  such  surpassing 
interest  to  him,  and  now  seemed  so  utterly  a  thing  of 
the  past ! 

Of  course,  he  should  see  her  again.  (He  put  aside  a 
mental  query  if  it  would  be  within  the  proprieties  on 
that  evening  or,  at  latest,  the  next.)  But,  in  any  case, 
the  "episode,"  as  he  had  said  to  her,  was  done,  and  it 
had  been  very  pleasant— oh,  yes,  very  dear  to  him. 
He  wondered  if  she  was  finding  the  day  as  interminable 
as  it  seemed  to  him,  and  if  the  interval  before  they  saw 


66  DAVID   HARUM 

each  other  again  would  seem  as  long  as  his  impatience 
would  make  it  for  him.  Finally  the  restless  dullness 
became  intolerable.  He  sallied  forth  into  the  weather 
and  went  to  his  club,  having  been  on  non-resident  foot- 
ing during  his  absence,  and,  finding  some  men  whom  he 
knew,  spent  there  the  rest  of  the  afternoon. 

His  father  was  at  home  and  in  his  room  when  John 
got  back. 

"Well,  father,"  he  said,  "the  prodigal  has  returned." 

"He  is  very  welcome,"  was  the  reply,  as  the  elder 
man  took  both  his  son's  hands  and  looked  at  him  affec- 
tionately. "You  seem  very  well." 

"Yes,"  said  John  ;  "and  how  are  you,  sir?" 

"About  as  usual,  I  think,"  said  Mr.  Lenox. 

They  looked  at  each  other  for  a  moment  in  silence. 
John  thought  that  his  father  seemed  thinner  than 
formerly,  and  he  had  instantly  observed  that  a  white 
beard  covered  the  always  hitherto  smooth-shaven  chin, 
but  he  made  no  comment. 

"The  old  place  appears  very  familiar,"  he  remarked. 
"Nothing  is  changed  or  even  moved,  as  I  can  see,  and 
Ann  and  Jeff  are  just  the  same  old  sixpences  as  ever." 

"Yes,"  said  his  father,  "two  years  make  less  difference 
with  old  people  and  their  old  habits  than  with  young 
ones.  You  will  have  changed  more  than  we  have,  I 
fancy." 

"Do  we  dress  for  dinner?"  asked  John,  after  some 
little  more  unimportant  talk. 

"Yes,"  said  his  father,  "in  honor  of  the  occasion,  if  you 
like.  I  haven' t  done  it  lately, ' '  he  added,  a  little  wearily. 

"I  haven't  had  such  a  glass  of  wine  since  I  left  home," 
John  remarked,  as  they  sat  together  after  dinner. 


DAVID    HARUM 


67 


"No,"  said  his  father,  looking  thoughtfully  at  his 
glass  ;  "it's  the  old  Mouton,  and  pretty  nearly  the  last 
of  it ;  it's  very  old  and  wants  drinking,"  he  observed,  as 
he  held  his  glass  up  to  get  the  color.  "It  has  gone  off 
a  bit  even  in  two  years." 

"All  right,"  said  John  cheerfully,  "we'll  drink  it  to 
save  it,  if  needs  be." 

The  elder  man  smiled  and  filled  both  glasses. 

There  had  been  more  or  less  talk  during  the  meal, 
but  nothing  of  special  moment.  John  sat  back  in  his 


chair,  absently  twirling  the 
stem  of  his  glass  between 
thumb  and  fingers.  Presently 
he  said,  looking  straight  before 
him  at  the  table :  "I  have  been  thinking  a  good  deal 
of  late — more  than  ever  before,  in  fact— that  what- 
ever my  prospects  may  be  "  (he  did  not  see  the  momen- 
tary contraction  of  his  father's  brow),  "I  ought  to  begin 
some  sort  of  a  career  in  earnest.  I'm  afraid,"  he  con- 

6 


68  DAVID   HARUM 

tinued,  "that  I  have  been  rather  unmindful,  and  that  I 
might  have  been  of  some  use  to  you  as  well  as  myself  if 
I  had  stayed  at  home  instead  of  spending  the  last  two 
years  in  Europe." 

"I  trust,"  said  his  father,  "that  they  have  not  been 
entirely  without  profit." 

"No,"  said  John,  "perhaps  not  wholly,  but  their  cash 
value  would  not  be  large,  I'm  afraid." 

"All  value  is  not  to  be  measured  in  dollars  and  cents," 
remarked  Mr.  Lenox.  "If  I  could  have  acquired  as 
much  German  and  French  as  I  presume  you  have,  to 
say  nothing  of  other  things,  I  should  look  back  upon 
the  time  as  well  spent  at  almost  any  cost.  At  your  age 
a  year  or  two  more  or  less — you  don't  realize  it  now, 
but  you  will  if  you  come  to  my  age — doesn't  count  for 
so  very  much,  and  you  are  not  too  old,"  he  smiled,  "to 
begin  at  a  beginning." 

"I  want  to  begin,"  said  John. 

"Yes,"  said  his  father,  "I  want  to  have  you,  and  I 
have  had  the  matter  a  good  deal  in  my  mind.  Have 
you  any  idea  as  to  what  you  wish  to  do?  " 

"I  thought,"  said  John,  "that  the  most  obvious  thing 
would  be  to  go  into  your  office." 

Mr.  Lenox  reached  over  for  the  cigar-lamp.  His  cigar 
had  gone  out,  and  his  hand  shook  as  he  applied  the 
flame  to  it.  He  did  not  reply  for  a  moment. 

"I  understand,"  he  said  at  last.  "It  would  seem  the 
obvious  thing  to  do,  as  you  say,  but,"  he  clicked  his 
teeth  together  doubtfully,  "I  don't  see  how  it  can  be 
managed  at  present,  and  I  don't  think  it  is  what  I 
should  desire  for  you  in  any  case.  The  fact  is,"  he  went 
on,  "my  business  has  always  been  a  sort  of  specialty, 
and,  though  it  is  still  worth  doing  perhaps,  it  is  not 


DAVID    HARUM  69 

what  it  used  to  be.  Conditions  and  methods  have 
changed — and,"  he  added,  "I  am  too  old  to  change  with 
them." 

"I  am  not,"  said  John. 

"In  fact,"  resumed  his  father,  ignoring  John's  asser- 
tion, "as  things  are  going  now,  I  couldn't  make  a  place 
for  you  in  my  office  unless  I  displaced  Melig  and  made 
you  my  manager,  and  for  many  reasons  I  couldn't  do 
that.  I  am  too  dependent  on  Melig.  Of  course,  if  you 
came  with  me  it  would  be  as  a  partner,  but—" 

"No,"  said  John,  "I  should  be  a  poor  substitute  for 
old  Melig  for  a  good  while,  I  fancy." 

"My  idea  would  be,"  said  Mr.  Lenox,  "that  you  should 
undertake  a  profession — say  the  law.  It  is  a  fact  that 
the  great  majority  of  men  fail  in  business,  and  then 
most  of  them,  for  lack  of  training  or  special  aptitude, 
fall  into  the  ranks  of  clerks  and  subordinates.  On  the 
other  hand,  a  man  who  has  a  profession— law,  medicine, 
what  not — even  if  he  does  not  attain  high  rank,  has 
something  on  which  he  can  generally  get  along,  at  least 
after  a  fashion,  and  he  has  the  standing.  That  is  my 
view  of  the  matter,  and  though  I  confess  I  often  wonder 
at  it  in  individual  cases,  it  is  my  advice  to  you." 

"It  would  take  three  or  four  years  to  put  me  where  I 
could  earn  anything  to  speak  of,"  said  John,  "even 
providing  that  I  could  get  any  business  at  the  end  of 
the  time." 

"Yes,"  said  his  father,  "but  the  time  of  itself  isn't  of 
so  much  consequence.  You  would  be  living  at  home, 
and  would  have  your  allowance— perhaps,"  he  sug- 
gested, "somewhat  diminished,  seeing  that  you  would 
be  here-" 

"I  can  get  on  with  half  of  it,"  said  John  confidently. 


;o  DAVID   HARUM 

"We  will  settle  that  matter  afterward,"  said  Mr. 
Lenox. 

They  sat  in  silence  for  some  minutes,  John  staring 
thoughtfully  at  the  table,  unconscious  of  the  occasional 
scrutiny  of  his  father's  glance.  At  last  he  said,  "Well, 
sir,  I  will  do  anything  that  you  advise." 

"Have  you  anything  to  urge  against  it?"  asked  Mr. 
Lenox. 

"Not  exactly  on  my  own  account,"  replied  John, 
"though  I  admit  that  the  three  years  or  more  seems  a 
long  time  to  me,  but  I  have  been  drawing  on  you  ex- 
clusively all  my  life,  except  for  the  little  money  I 
earned  in  Rush  &  Company's  office,  and — " 

"You  have  done  so,  my  dear  boy,"  said  his  father 
gently,  "with  my  acquiescence.  I  may  have  been 
wrong,  but  that  is  a  fact.  If,  in  my  judgment,  the  ar- 
rangement may  be  continued  for  a  while  longer,  and  in 
the  meantime  you  are  making  progress  toward  a  defi- 
nite end,  I  think  you  need  have  no  misgivings.  It 
gratifies  me  to  have  you  feel  as  you  do,  though  it  is  no 
more  than  I  should  have  expected  of  you,  for  you  have 
never  caused  me  any  serious  anxiety  or  disappoint- 
ment, my  son." 

Often  in  the  after  time  did  John  thank  God  for  that 
assurance. 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  he  said,  putting  down  his  hand, 
palm  upward,  on  the  table,  and  his  eyes  filled  as  the 
elder  man  laid  his  hand  in  his,  and  they  gave  each 
other  a  lingering  pressure. 

Mr.  Lenox  divided  the  last  of  the  wine  in  the  bottle 
between  the  two  glasses,  and  they  drank  it  in  silence, 
as  if  in  pledge. 

"I  will  go  in  to  see  Carey  &  Carey  in  the  morning, 


DAVID   HARUM  71 

and  if  they  are  agreeable  you  can  see  them  afterward/' 
said  Mr.  Lenox.  "They  are  not  one  of  the  great  firms, 
but  they  have  a  large  and  good  practice,  and  they  are 
friends  of  mine.  Shall  I  do  so  ?  "  he  asked,  looking  at 
his  son. 

"If  you  will  be  so  kind,"  John  replied,  returning  his 
look.     And  so  the  matter  was  concluded. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THIS  history  will  not  concern  itself  to  any  extent  with 
our  friend's  career  as  a  law  clerk,  though,  as  he  promised 
himself,  he  took  it  seriously  and  laboriously  while  it 
lasted,  notwithstanding  that,  after  two  years  of  being 
his  own  master,  and  the  rather  desultory  and  altogether 
congenial  life  he  had  led,  he  found  it  at  first  even  more 
irksome  than  he  had  fancied.  The  novice  penetrates  but 
slowly  the  mysteries  of  the  law,  and,  unless  he  be  of 
unusual  aptitude  and  imagination,  the  interesting  and 
remunerative  part  seems  for  a  long  time  very  far  off. 
But  John  stuck  manfully  to  the  reading,  and  was  dili- 
gent in  all  that  was  put  upon  him  to  do ;  and  after  a 
while  the  days  spent  in  the  office  and  in  the  work  ap- 
pointed to  him  began  to  pass  more  quickly. 

He  restrained  his  impulse  to  call  at  Sixty-ninth  Street 
until  what  seemed  to  him  a  fitting  interval  had  elapsed  ; 
one  which  was  longer  than  it  would  otherwise  have 
been,  from  an  instinct  of  shyness  not  habitual  to  him, 
and  a  distrustful  apprehension  that  perhaps  his  advent 
was  not  of  so  much  moment  to  the  people  there  as  to 
himself.  But  their  greeting  was  so  cordial  on  every 
hand  that  Mrs.  Carling's  remark  that  they  had  been 
almost  afraid  he  had  forgotten  them  embarrassed  while 
it  pleased  him,  and  his  explanations  were  somewhat 
lame.  Miss  Blake,  as  usual,  came  to  the  rescue,  though 
John's  disconcert  was  not  lessened  by  the  suspicion  that 
she  saw  through  his  inventions.  He  had  conceived  a 
great  opinion  of  that  young  person's  penetration. 

His  talk  for  a  while  was  mostly  with  Mr.  Carling, 


DAVID   HARUM  73 

who  was  in  a  pleasant  mood,  being,  like  most  nervous 
people,  at  his  best  in  the  evening.  Mary  made  an  oc- 
casional contributory  remark,  and  Mrs.  Carling,  as  was 
her  wont,  was  silent  except  when  appealed  to.  Finally 
Mr.  Carling  rose  and,  putting  out  his  hand,  said :  "I 
think  I  will  excuse  myself,  if  you  will  permit  me.  I 
have  had  to  be  down-town  to-day,  and  am  rather  tired." 
Mrs.  Carling  followed  him,  saying  to  John  as  she  bade 
him  good-night :  "Do  come,  Mr.  Lenox,  whenever  you 
feel  like  it.  We  are  very  quiet  people,  and  are  almost 
always  at  home." 

"Thank  you.,  Mrs.  Carling,"  responded  John,  with 
much  sincerity.  "I  shall  be  most  glad  to.  I  am  so 
quiet  myself  as  to  be  practically  noiseless." 

The  hall  of  the  Carlings'  house  was  their  favorite  sit- 
ting-place in  the  evening.  It  ran  nearly  the  whole 
depth  of  the  house,  and  had  a  wide  fireplace  at  the  end. 
The  farther  right-hand  portion  was  recessed  by  the  stair- 
way, which  rose  from  about  the  middle  of  its  length. 

Miss  Blake  sat  in  a  low  chair,  and  John  took  its  fellow 
at  the  other  angle  of  the  fireplace,  which  contained  the 
smoldering  remnant  of  a 
wood  fire.  She  had  a  bit 
of  embroidery  stretched 
over  a  circular  frame  like 
a  drumhead.  Needle- 
work was  not  a  passion 
with  her,  but  it  was 
understood  in  the  Carling  household  that  in  course 
of  time  a  set  of  table  doilies  of  elaborate  devices  in 
colored  silks  would  be  forthcoming.  It  has  been  de- 
plored by  some  philosopher  that  custom  does  not  sanc- 
tion such  little  occupations  for  masculine  hands.  It 


74  DAVID   HARUM 

would  be  interesting  to  speculate  how  many  embarrass- 
ing or  disastrous  consequences  might  have  been  averted 
if  at  a  critical  point  in  a  negotiation  or  controversy  a 
needle  had  had  to  be  threaded  or  a  dropped  stitch 
taken  up  before  a  reply  was  made,  to  say  nothing  of  an 
excuse  for  averting  features  at  times  without  confes- 
sion of  confusion. 

The  great  and  wise  Charles  Reade  tells  how  his  hero, 
who  had  an  island,  a  treasure  ship,  and  a  few  other 
trifles  of  the  sort  to  dispose  of,  insisted  upon  Captain 
Fullalove's  throwing  away  the  stick  he  was  whittling, 
as  giving  the  captain  an  unfair  advantage.  The  value 
of  the  embroidered  doily  as  an  article  of  table  napery 
may  be  open  to  question,  but  its  value,  in  an  unfinished 
state,  as  an  adjunct  to  discreet  conversation,  is  beyond 
all  dispute. 

"Ought  I  to  say  good-night?"  asked  John,  with  a 
smile,  as  he  seated  himself  on  the  disappearance  of  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Carling. 

"I  don't  see  any  reason,"  she  replied.  "It  isn't  late. 
Julius  is  in  one  of  his  periods  of  retiring  early  just 
now.  By  and  by  he  will  be  sure  to  take  up  the  idea 
again  that  his  best  sleep  is  after  midnight.  At  present 
he  is  on  the  theory  that  it  is  before  twelve  o'clock." 

"How  has  he  been  since  your  return?"  John  asked. 

"Better  in  some  ways,  I  think,"  she  replied.  "He 
seems  to  enjoy  the  home  life  in  contrast  with  the  travel- 
ing about  and  living  in  hotels  ;  and  then,  in  a  moderate 
way,  he  is  obliged  to  give  some  attention  to  business 
matters,  and  to  come  in  contact  with  men  and  affairs 
generally." 

"And  you?  "  said  John.  "You  find  it  pleasant  to  be 
back?" 


DAVID   HARUM  75 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "I  do.  As  my  sister  said,  we  are 
quiet  people.  She  goes  out  so  little  that  it  is  almost 
not  at  all,  and  when  I  go  it  has  nearly  always  to  be  with 
some  one  else.  And  then,  you  know  that  while  Alice 
and  I  are  originally  New-Yorkers,  we  have  only  been 
back  here  for  two  or  three  years.  Most  of  the  people, 
really,  to  whose  houses  we  go  are  those  who  knew  my 
father.  But,"  she  added,  "it  is  a  comfort  not  to  be 
carrying  about  a  traveling  bag  in  one  hand  and  a 
weight  of  responsibility  in  the  other." 

"I  should  think,"  said  John,  laughing,  "that  your 
maid  might  have  taken  the  bag,  even  if  she  couldn't 
carry  your  responsibilities." 

"No,"  she  said,  joining  in  his  laugh,  "that  particular 
bag  was  too  precious,  and  Eliza  was  one  of  my  most 
serious  responsibilities.  She  had  to  be  looked  after  like 
the  luggage,  and  I  used  to  wish  at  times  that  she  could 
be  labeled  and  go  in  the  van.  How  has  it  been  with 
you  since  your  return  ?  and,"  as  she  separated  a  needle- 
ful of  silk  from  what  seemed  an  inextricable  tangle,  "if 
I  may  ask,  what  have  you  been  doing  ?  I  was  recalling," 
she  added,  putting  the  silk  into  the  needle,  "some  things 
you  said  to  me  on  the  Altruria.  Do  you  remember  ?  " 

"Perfectly,"  said  John.  "I  think  I  remember  every 
word  said  on  both  sides,  and  I  have  thought  very  often 
of  some  things  you  said  to  me.  In  fact,  they  had  more 
influence  upon  my  mind  than  you  imagined." 

She  turned  her  work  so  that  the  light  would  fall  a 
little  more  directly  upon  it. 

"Really  1 "  she  asked.     "In  what  way  ?  " 

"You  put  in  a  drop  or  two  that  crystallized  the  whole 
solution,"  he  answered. 

She  looked  up  at  him  inquiringly. 


76  DAVID   HARUM 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  always  knew  that  I  should  have  to 
stop  drifting  sometime,  but  there  never  seemed  to  be 
any  particular  time.  Some  things  you  said  to  me  set 
the  time.  I  am  under  'full  steam  ahead'  at  present. 
Behold  in  me,"  he  exclaimed,  touching  his  breast,  "the 
future  chief  of  the  Supreme  Court  of  the  United  States, 
of  whom  you  shall  say  sometime  in  the  next  brief  in- 
terval of  forty  years  or  so,  '  I  knew  him  as  a  young  man, 
and  one  for  whom  no  one  would  have  predicted  such 
eminence !'  and  perhaps  you  will  add,  'It  was  largely 
owing  to  me.' " 

She  looked  at  him  with  an  expression  in  which  amuse- 
ment and  curiosity  were  blended. 

"I  congratulate  you,"  she  said,  laughing,  "upon  the 
career  in  which  it  appears  I  had  the  honor  to  start  you. 
Am  I  being  told  that  you  have  taken  up  the  law  ?  " 

"Not  quite  the  whole  of  it  as  yet/'  he  said ;  "but 
when  I  am  not  doing  errands  for  the  office  I  am  to  some 
extent  taken  up  with  it."  And  then  he  told  her  of  his 
talk  with  his  father  and  what  had  followed.  She  over- 
came a  refractory  kink  in  her  silk  before  speaking. 

"It  takes  a  long  time,  doesn't  it?  and  do  you  like  it?  " 
she  asked. 

"Well,"  said  John,  laughing  a  little,  "a  weaker  word 
than  'fascinating'  would  describe  the  pursuit,  but  I 
hope  with  diligence  to  reach  some  of  the  interesting 
features  in  the  course  of  ten  or  twelve  years." 

"It  is  delightful,"  she  remarked,  scrutinizing  the 
pattern  of  her  work,  "to  encounter  such  enthusiasm." 

"Isn't  it?  "  said  John,  not  in  the  least  wounded  by  her 
sarcasm. 

"Very  much  so,"  she  replied ;  "but  I  have  always 
understood  that  it  is  a  mistake  to  be  too  sanguine." 


DAVID    HARUM  77 

"Perhaps  I'd  better  make  it  fifteen  years,  then,"  he 
said,  laughing.  "I  should  have  a  choice  of  professions 
by  that  time,  at  any  rate.  You  know  the  proverb  that 
'At  forty  every  man  is  either  a  fool  or  a  physician.'" 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  smile. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  realize  the  alternative." 

She  laughed  a  little,  but  did  not  reply. 

"Seriously,"  he  continued,  "I  know  that  in  every- 
thing worth  accomplishing  there  is  a  lot  of  drudgery  to 
be  gone  through  with  at  the  first,  and  perhaps  it  seems 
the  more  irksome  to  me  because  I  have  been  so  long 
idly  my  own  master.  However,"  he  added,  "I  shall  get 
down  to  it,  or  up  to  it,  after  a  while,  I  dare  say.  That 
is  my  intention,  at  any  rate." 

"I  don't  think  I  have  ever  wished  that  I  were  a  man," 
she  said  after  a  moment,  "but  I  often  find  myself  envy- 
ing a  man's  opportunities." 

"Do  not  women  have  opportunities,  too?"  he  said. 
"Certainly  they  have  greatly  to  do  with  the  determina- 
tion of  affairs." 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  replied,  "it  is  the  usual  answer  that 
woman's  part  is  to  influence  somebody.  As  for  her 
own  life,  it  is  largely  made  for  her.  She  has,  for  the 
most  part,  to  take  what  comes  to  her  by  the  will  of 
others." 

"And  yet,"  said  John,  "I  fancy  that  there  has  seldom 
been  a  great  career  in  which  some  woman's  help  or  in- 
fluence was  not  a  factor." 

"Even  granting  that,"  she  replied,  "the  career  was 
the  man's,  after  all,  and  the  fame  and  visible  reward. 
A  man  will  sometimes  say,  'I  owe  all  my  success  to  my 
wife,  or  my  mother,  or  sister,'  but  he  never  really  be- 
lieves it,  nor,  in  fact,  does  any  one  else.  It  is  his  sue- 


78  DAVID   HARUM 

cess,  after  all,  and  the  influence  of  the  woman  is  but  a 
circumstance,  real  and  powerful  though  it  may  be.  I 
am  not  sure,"  she  added,  "that  woman's  influence,  so 
called,  isn't  rather  an  overrated  thing.  "Women  like  to 
feel  that  they  have  it,  and  men,  in  matters  which  they 
hold  lightly,  flatter  them  by  yielding,  but  I  am  doubtful 
if  a  man  ever  arrives  at  or  abandons  a  settled  course  or 
conviction  through  the  influence  of  a  woman,  however 
exerted." 

"I  think  you  are  wrong,"  said  John,  "and  I  feel  sure 
of  so  much  as  this :  that  a  man  might  often  be  or  do 
for  a  woman's  sake  that  which  he  would  not  for  his 
own." 

"That  is  quite  another  thing,"  she  said.  "There  is  in 
it  no  question  of  influence  j  it  is  one  of  impulse  and 
motive." 

"I  have  told  you  to-night,"  said  John,  "that  what 
you  said  to  me  had  influenced  me  greatly." 

"Pardon  me,"  she  replied,  "you  employed  a  figure 
which  exactly  defined  your  condition.  You  said  I  sup- 
plied the  drop  which  caused  the  solution  to  crystallize 
—that  is,  to  elaborate  your  illustration,  that  it  was  al- 
ready at  the  point  of  saturation  with  your  own  convic- 
tions and  intentions." 

"I  said  also,"  he  urged,  "that  you  had  set  the  time 
for  me.  Is  the  idea  unpleasant  to  you  ?  "  he  asked  after 
a  moment,  while  he  watched  her  face. 

She  did  not  at  once  reply,  but  presently  she  turned 
to  him  with  slightly  heightened  color  and  said,  ignoring 
his  question : 

"Would  you  rather  think  that  you  had  done  what 
you  thought  right  because  you  so  thought,  or  because 
some  one  else  wished  to  have  you?  Or,  I  should  say, 


DAVID   HARUM  79 

would  you  rather  think  that  the  right  suggestion  was 
another's  than  your  own?" 

He  laughed  a  little,  and  said  evasively  :  "You  ought 
to  be  a  lawyer,  Miss  Blake.  I  should  hate  to  <have  you 
cross-examine  me  unless  I  were  very  sure  of  my  evi- 
dence." 

She  gave  a  little  shrug  of  her  shoulders  in  reply  as 
she  turned  and  resumed  her  embroidery.  They  talked 
for  a  while  longer,  but  of  other  things,  the  discussion  of 
woman's  influence  having  been  dropped  by  mutual 
consent. 

After  John's  departure  she  suspended  operations  on 
the  doily,  and  sat  for  a  while  gazing  reflectively  into 
the  fire.  She  was  a  person  as  frank  with  herself  as  with 
others,  and  with  as  little  vanity  as  was  compatible  with 
being  human  ;  which  is  to  say  that,  though  she  was  not 
without  it,  it  was  of  the  sort  wThich  could  be  gratified 
but  not  flattered— in  fact,  the  sort  which  flattery 
wounds  rather  than  pleases.  But  despite  her  apparent 
skepticism  she  had  not  been  displeased  by  John's 
assertion  that  she  had  influenced  him  in  his 
course.  She  had  expressed  herself  truly, 
believing  that  he  would  have  done  as  he 
had  without  her  intervention ;  but  she 
thought  that  he  was  sincere,  and  it  was 
pleasant  to  her  to  have  him  think  as  he  did. 

Considering  the  surroundings  and  con- 
ditions under  which  she  had  lived,  she  had 
had  her  share  of  the  acquaintance  and  at- 
tentions of  agreeable  men,  but  none  of  them 
had  ever  got  with  her  beyond  the  stage  of 
mere  friendliness.  There  had  never  been  one  whose  com- 
ing she  had  particularly  looked  forward  to,  or  whose 


8o  DAVID   HARUM 

going  she  had  deplored.  She  had  thought  of  marriage  as 
something  she  might  come  to,  but  she  had  promised  her- 
self that  it  should  be  on  such  conditions  as  were,  she  was 
aware,  quite  improbable  of  ever  being  fulfilled.  She 
would  not  care  for  a  man  because  he  was  clever  and  dis- 
tinguished, but  she  felt  that  he  must  be  those  things, 
and  have,  besides,  those  qualities  of  character  and  per- 
son which  should  attract  her.  She  had  known  a  good 
many  men  who  were  clever  and  to  some  extent  dis- 
tinguished, but  none  who  had  attracted  her  personally. 
John  Lenox  did  not  strike  her  as  being  particularly 
clever,  and  he  certainly  was  not  distinguished,  nor, 
she  thought,  ever  very  likely  to  be  ;  but  she  had  felt  a 
pleasure  in  being  with  him  which  she  had  never  experi- 
enced in  the  society  of  any  other  man,  and  underneath 
some  boyish  ways  she  divined  a  strength  and  steadfast- 
ness which  could  be  relied  upon  at  need.  And  she 
admitted  to  herself  that  during  the  ten  days  since  her 
return,  though  she  had  unsparingly  snubbed  her  sister's 
wonderings  why  he  did  not  call,  she  had  speculated  a 
good  deal  upon  the  subject  herself,  with  a  sort  of  re- 
sentful feeling  against  both  herself  and  him  that  she 
should  care. 

Her  face  flushed  as  she  recalled  the  momentary  pres- 
sure of  his  hand  upon  hers  on  that  last  night  on  deck. 
She  rang  for  the  servant,  and  went  up  to  her  room. 


CHAPTER   IX 

IT  is  not  the  purpose  of  this  narrative  to  dwell  minutely 
upon  the  events  of  the  next  few  months.  Truth  to  say, 
they  were  devoid  of  incidents  of  sufficient  moment  in 
themselves  to  warrant  chronicle.  What  they  led  up  to 
was  memorable  enough. 

As  time  went  on  John  found  himself  on  terms  of  grow- 
ing intimacy  with  the  Carling  household,  and  eventually 
it  came  about  that  if  there  passed  a  day  when  their  door 
did  not  open  to  him  it  was  dies  non. 

Mr.  Carling  was  ostensibly  more  responsible  than  the 
ladies  for  the  frequency  of  our  friend's  visits,  and  grew 
to  look  forward  to  them.  In  fact,  he  seemed  to  regard 
them  as  paid  primarily  to  himself,  and  ignored  an  occa- 
sional suggestion  on  his  wife's  part  that  it  might  not  be 
wholly  the  pleasure  of  a  chat  and  a  game  at  cards  with 
him  that  brought  the  young  man  so  often  to  the  house. 
And  when  once  she  ventured  to  concern  him  with  some 
stirrings  of  her  mind  on  the  subject,  he  rather  testily 
(for  him)  pooh-poohed  her  misgivings,  remarking  that 
Mary  was  her  own  mistress,  and,  as  far  as  he  had  ever 
seen,  remarkably  well  qualified  to  regulate  her  own 
affairs.  Had  she  ever  seen  anything  to  lead  her  to 
suppose  that  there  was  any  particular  sentiment  exist- 
ing between  Lenox  and  her  sister? 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Carling,  "perhaps  not  exactly,  but 
you  know  how  those  things  go,  and  he  always  stays 
after  we  come  up  when  she  is  at  home."  To  which  her 
husband  vouchsafed  no  reply,  but  began  a  protracted 


82 


DAVID   HARUM 


wavering  as  to  the  advisability  of  leaving  the  steam  on 
or  turning  it  off  for  the  night,  which  was  a  cold  one — 
a  dilemma  which,  involving  his  personal  welfare  or 
comfort  at  the  moment,  permitted  no  consideration  of 
other  matters  to  share  his  mind. 

Mrs.  Carling  had  not  spoken  to  her  sister  upon  the 
subject.     She  thought  that  that  young  woman,  if  she 
were  not,  as  Mr.  Carling  said,  "re- 
markably well  qualified  to  regulate 

her  own  affairs>" at  least  held  tne 

opinion  that  she  was,  very  strongly. 


The  two  were  devotedly  fond  of  each  other,  but  Mrs. 
Carling  was  the  elder  by  twenty  years,  and  in  her  love 
was  an  element  of  maternal  solicitude  to  which  her 
sister,  while  giving  love  for  love  in  fullest  measure,  did 
not  fully  respond.  The  elder  would  have  liked  to  share 
every  thought ;  but  she  was  neither  so  strong  nor  so 
clever  as  the  girl  to  whom  she  had  been  almost  as  a 
mother,  and  who,  though  perfectly  truthful  and  frank 


DAVID   HARUM  83 

when  she  was  minded  to  express  herself,  gave,  as  a  rule, 
little  satisfaction  to  attempts  to  explore  her  mind,  and 
on  some  subjects  was  capable  of  meeting  such  attempts 
with  impatience,  not  to  say  resentment 
— a  fact  of  which  her  sister  was  quite 
aware.     But  as  time  went  on,  and  the 
frequency  of  John's  visits  and  atten- 
tions grew  into  a  settled  habit,  Mrs.  Car- 
ling's  uneasiness,  with  which  perhaps 
was  mingled  a  bit  of  curiosity,  got  the 
better  of  her  reserve,  and  she  deter- 
mined to  get  what  satisfaction  could  be 
obtained  for  it. 

They  were  sitting  in  Mrs.  Carling's 
room,  which  was  over  the  drawing-room 
in  the  front  of  the  house.  A  fire  of 
cannel  blazed  in  the  grate. 

A  furious  storm  was  whirling  outside. 
Mrs.  Carling  was  occupied  with  some 
sort  of  needlework,  and  her  sister,  with 
a  writing-pad  on  her  lap,  was  composing 
a  letter  to  a  friend  with  whom  she  carried 
on  a  desultory  and  rather  one-sided  cor- 
respondence. Presently  she  yawned 
slightly,  and,  putting  down  her  pad, 
went  over  to  the  window  and  looked  out.  '  / 

"What  a  day  ! "  she  exclaimed.     "It 
seems  to  get  worse  and  worse.     Positively  you  can't 
see  across  the  street.     It's  like  a  Western  blizzard." 

"It  is,  really,"  said  Mrs.  Carling ;  and  then,  moved 
by  the  current  of  thought  which  had  been  passing  in 
her  mind  of  late,  "I  fancy  we  shall  spend  the  evening 
by  ourselves  to-night," 
7 


84  DAVID   HARUM 

"That  would  not  be  so  unusual  as  to  be  extraordinary, 
would  it  ?  "  said  Mary. 

"Wouldn't  it?  "  suggested  Mrs.  Carling,  in  a  tone  that 
was  meant  to  be  slightly  quizzical. 

"We  are  by  ourselves  most  evenings,  are  we  not?" 
responded  her  sister,  without  turning  around.  "Why 
do  you  particularize  to-night  ?  " 

"I  was  thinking,"  answered  Mrs.  Carling,  bending  a 
little  closer  over  her  work,  "that  even  Mr.  Lenox  would 
hardly  venture  out  in  such  a  storm  unless  it  were  abso- 
lutely necessary." 

"Oh,  yes,  to  be  sure,  Mr.  Lenox ;  very  likely  not," 
was  Miss  Blake's  comment,  in  a  tone  of  indifferent 
recollection. 

"He  comes  here  very  often,  almost  every  night,  in 
fact,"  remarked  Mrs.  Carling,  looking  up  sideways  at 
her  sister's  back. 

"Now  that  you  mention  it,"  said  Mary  dryly,  "I  have 
noticed  something  of  the  sort  myself." 

"Do  you  think  he  ought  to?"  asked  her  sister,  after 
a  moment  of  silence. 

"Why  not?"  said  the  girl,  turning  to  her  questioner 
for  the  first  time.  "And  why  should  I  think  he  should 
or  should  not?  Doesn't  he  come  to  see  Julius,  and  on 
Julius's  invitation?  I  have  never  asked  him — but 
once,"  she  said,  flushing  a  little  as  she  recalled  the 
occasion  and  the  wording  of  the  invitation. 

"Do  you  think,"  returned  Mrs.  Carling,  "that  his 
visits  are  wholly  on  Julius's  account,  and  that  he 
would  come  so  often  if  there  were  no  other  induce- 
ment? You  know,"  she  continued,  pressing  her  point 
timidly  but  persistently,  "he  always  stays  after  we 
go  upstairs  if  you  are  at  home,  and  I  have  noticed  that 


DAVID   HARUM  85 

when  you  are  out  he  always  goes  before  our  time  for 
retiring." 

"I  should  say,"  was  the  rejoinder,  "that  that  was 
very  much  the  proper  thing.  Whether  or  not  he  comes 
here  too  often  is  not  for  me  to  say — I  have  no  opinion 
on  the  subject.  But,  to  do  him  justice,  he  is  about  the 
last  man  to  wait  for  a  tacit  dismissal,  or  to  cause  you 
and  Julius  to  depart  from  what  he  knows  to  be  your 
regular  habit  out  of  politeness  to  him.  He  is  a  person 
of  too  much  delicacy  and  good  breeding  to  stay  when 
— if — that  is  to  say — " 

She  turned  again  to  the  window  without  completing 
her  sentence,  and,  though  Mrs.  Carling  thought  she  could 
complete  it  for  her,  she  wisely  forbore.  After  a  moment 
of  silence,  Mary  said  in  a  voice  devoid  of  any  traces  of 
confusion  : 

"You  asked  me  if  I  thought  Mr.  Lenox  would  come 
so  often  if  there  were  no  object  in  his  coming  except 
to  see  Julius.  I  can  only  say  that  if  Julius  were  out 
of  the  question  I  think  he  would  come  here  but  sel- 
dom ;  but,"  she  added,  as  she  left  the  window  and  re- 
sumed her  seat,  "I  do  not  quite  see  the  object  of  this 
discussion,  and,  indeed,  I  am  not  quite  sure  what  we 
are  discussing.  Do  you  object,"  she  asked,  looking 
curiously  at  her  sister  and  smiling  slightly,  "to  Mr. 
Lenox's  coming  here  as  he  does,  and  if  so,  why?" 
This  was  apparently  more  direct  than  Mrs.  Carling 
was  quite  prepared  for.  "And  if  you  do,"  Mary 
proceeded,  "what  is  to  be  done  about  it?  Am  I  to 
make  him  understand  that  it  is  not  considered  the 
proper  thing?  or  will  you?  or  shall  we  leave  it  to 
Julius?" 

Mrs.  Carling  looked  up  into  her  sister's  face,  in  which 


86  DAVID   HARUM 

was  a  smile  of  amused  penetration,  and  looked  down 
again  in  visible  embarrassment. 

The  young  woman  laughed  as  she  shook  her  finger  at 
her. 

"Oh,  you  transparent  goose  ! "  she  cried.  "What  did 
he  say?" 

"What  did  who  say?"  was  the  evasive  response. 

"Julius,"  said  Mary,  putting  her  finger  under  her 
sister's  chin  and  raising  her  face.  "Tell  me,  now. 
You've  been  talking  with  him,  and  I  insist  upon  know- 
ing the  truth,  the  whole  truth,  and  nothing  but  the 
truth.  So  there  ! " 

"Well,"  she  admitted  hesitatingly,  "I  said  to  him 
something  like  what  I  have  to  you— that  it  seemed  to 
me  that  Mr.  Lenox  came  very  often,  and  that  I  did  not 
believe  it  was  all  on  his  account,  and  that  he"  (won't 
somebody  please  invent  another  pronoun?)  "always 
stayed  when  you  were  at  home — ' 

"And,"  broke  in  her  sister,  "that  you  were  afraid 
my  young  affections  were  being  engaged,  and  that,  after 
all,  we  didn't  know  much  if  anything  about  the  young 
man,  or,  perhaps,  that  he  was  forming  a  hopeless  attach- 
ment, and  so  on." 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Carling,  "I  didn't  say  that  exactly. 
I-" 

"Didn't  you,  really?"  said  Mary  teasingly.  "One 
ought  to  be  explicit  in  such  cases,  don't  you  think? 
Well,  what  did  Julius  say  ?  Was  he  very  much  con- 
cerned?" 

Mrs.  Carling's  face  colored  faintly  under  her  sister's 
raillery,  and  she  gave  a  little  embarrassed  laugh. 

"Come,  now,"  said  the  girl  relentlessly,  "what  did  he 
say?" 


DAVID   HARUM  87 

"Well,"  answered  Mrs.  Carling,  "I  must  admit  that 
he  said  'Pooh  ! '  for  one  thing,  and  that  you  were  your 
own  mistress,  and,  so  far  as  he  had  seen,  you  were  very 
well  qualified  to  manage  your  own  affairs." 

Her  sister  clapped  her  hands.  "Such  discrimination 
have  I  not  seen,"  she  exclaimed,  "no,  not  in  Israel ! 
What  else  did  he  say  !  "  she  demanded,  with  a  dramatic 
gesture.  "Let  us  know  the  worst." 

Mrs.  Carling  laughed  a  little.  "I  don't  remember," 
she  admitted,  "that  he  said  anything  more  on  the  sub- 
ject. He  got  into  some  perplexity  about  whether  the 
steam  should  be  off  or  on,  and  after  that  question  was 
settled  we  went  to  bed." 

Mary  laughed  outright.  "So  Julius  doesn't  think  I 
need  watching,"  she  said. 

"Mary,"  protested  her  sister  in  a  hurt  tone,  "you 
don't  think  I  ever  did  or  could  watch  you?  I  don't 
want  to  pry  into  your  secrets,  dear,"  and  she  looked  up 
with  tears  in  her  eyes. 

The  girl  dropped  on  her  knees  beside  her  sister  and 
put  her  arms  about  her  neck.  "You  precious  old 
lamb!"  she  cried,  "I  know  you  don't.  You  couldn't 
pry  into  anybody's  secrets  if  you  tried.  You  couldn't 
even  try.  But  I  haven't  any,  dear,  and  I'll  tell  you 
every  one  of  them,  and,  rather  than  see  a  tear  in  your 
dear  eyes,  I  would  tell  John  Lenox  that  I  never  wanted 
to  see  him  again  ;  and  I  don't  know  what  you  have  been 
thinking,  but  I  haven't  thought  so  at  all "  (which  last 
assertion  made  even  Mrs.  Carling  laugh),  "and  I  know 
that  I  have  been  teasing  and  horrid,  and  if  you  won't 
put  me  in  the  closet  I  will  be  good  and  answer  every 
question  like  a  nice  little  girl."  Whereupon  she  gave 
her  sister  a  kiss  and  resumed  her  seat  with  an  air  of 


88  DAVID   HARUM 

abject  penitence  which  lasted  for  a  minute.  Then  she 
laughed  again,  though  there  was  a  watery  gleam  in  her 
own  eyes. 

Mrs.  Carling  gave  her  a  look  of  great  love  and  ad- 
miration. "I  ought  not  to  have  brought  up  the  sub- 
ject," she  said,  "knowing  as  I  do  how  you  feel  about 
such  discussions,  but  I  love  you  so  much  that  sometimes 
I  can't  help—" 

"Alice,"  exclaimed  the  girl,  "please  have  the  kind- 
ness to  call  me  a  selfish  p — i — g.  It  will  relieve  my 
feelings." 

"But  I  do  not  think  you  are,"  said  Mrs.  Carling 
literally. 

"But  I  am  at  times,"  declared  Mary,  "and  you  de- 
serve not  only  to  have,  but  to  be  shown,  all  the  love 
and  confidence  that  I  can  give  you.  It's  only  this  :  that 
sometimes  your  solicitude  makes  you  imagine  things 
that  do  not  exist,  and  you  think  I  am  withholding  my 
confidence ;  and  then,  again,  I  am  enough  like  other 
people  that  I  don't  always  know  exactly  what  I  do 
think.  Now,  about  this  matter — " 

"Don't  say  a  word  about  it,  dear,"  her  sister  inter- 
rupted, "unless  you  would  rather  than  not." 

"I  wish  to,"  said  Mary.  "Of  course  I  am  not  ob- 
livious of  the  fact  that  Mr.  Lenox  comes  here  very 
often,  nor  that  he  seems  to  like  to  stay  and  talk  with  me, 
because,  don't  you  know,  if  he  didn't  he  could  go  when 
you  do  ;  and  I  don't  mind  admitting  that,  as  a  general 
thing,  I  like  to  have  him  stay  ;  but,  as  I  said  to  you,  if 
it  weren't  for  Julius  he  would  not  come  here  very  often." 

"Don't  you  think,"  said  Mrs.  Carling,  now  on  an 
assured  footing,  "that  if  it  were  not  for  you  he  would 
not  come  so  often  ?  " 


DAVID   HARUM 


89 


Perhaps  Mary  overestimated  the  attraction  which 
her  brother-in-law  had  for  Mr.  Lenox,  and  she  smiled 
slightly  as  she  thought  that  it  was  quite  possible. 
"I  suppose,"  she  went  on,  with  a  little  shrug  of 
the  shoulders,  "that  the 
proceeding  is  notstrictly 
conventional,  and  that 
the  absolutely  correct 
thing  would  be  for  him 
to  say  good-night  when 
you  and  Julius  do,  and 
that  there  are  those  who 
would  regard  my  per- 
mitting a  young  man  in 
no  way  related  to  me 
to  see  me  very  often  in 
the  evening  without  the 
protection  of  a  duenna 
as  a  very  unbecoming 
thing." 

"  I  ne  ver  have  had  such 
a  thought  about  it," 
declared  Mrs.  Carling. 

"I  never  for  a  moment  supposed  you  had,  dear,"  said 
Mary,  "nor  have  I.  We  are  rather  unconventional 
people,  making  very  few  claims  upon  society,  and  upon 
whom  society  makes  very  few." 

"I  am  rather  sorry  for  that  on  your  account,"  said 
her  sister. 

"You  needn't  be,"  was  the  rejoinder.  "I  have  no 
yearnings  in  that  direction  which  are  not  satisfied  with 
what  I  have."  She  sat  for  a  minute  or  two  with  her 
hands  clasped  upon  her  knee,  gazing  reflectively  into 


90  DAVID   HARUM 

the  fire,  which,  in  the  growing  darkness  of  the  winter 
afternoon,  afforded  almost  the  only  light  in  the  room. 
Presently  she  became  conscious  that  her  sister  was  re- 
garding her  with  an  air  of  expectation,  and  resumed  : 
"Leaving  the  question  of  the  conventions  out  of  the 
discussion  as  settled,"  she  said,  "there  is  nothing,  Alice, 
that  you  need  have  any  concern  about,  either  on  Mr. 
Lenox's  account  or  mine." 

"You  like  him,  don't  you?"  asked  Mrs.  Carling. 

"Yes,"  said  Mary  frankly,  "I  like  him  very  much. 
We  have  enough  in  common  to  be  rather  sympa- 
thetic, and  we  differ  enough  not  to  be  dull,  and  so 
we  get  on  very  well.  I  never  had  a  brother,"  she  con- 
tinued, after  a  momentary  pause,  "but  I  feel  toward 
him  as  I  fancy  I  should  feel  toward  a  brother  of  about 
my  own  age,  though  he  is  five  or  six  years  older  than  I 
am." 

"You  don't  think,  then,"  said  Mrs.  Carling  timidly, 
"that  you  are  getting  to  care  for  him  at  all? " 

"In  the  sense  that  you  use  the  word,"  was  the  reply, 
"not  the  least  in  the  world.  If  there  were  to  come  a 
time  when  I  really  believed  I  should  never  see  him 
again,  I  should  be  sorry ;  but  if  at  any  time  it  were  a 
question  of  six  months  or  a  year,  I  do  not  think  my 
equanimity  would  be  particularly  disturbed." 

"And  how   about  him?"   suggested   Mrs.   Carling. 

There  was  no  reply. 

"Don't  you  think  he  may  care  for  you,  or  be  getting 
to?" 

Mary  frowned  slightly,  half  closing  her  eyes  and  stir- 
ring a  little  uneasily  in  her  chair. 

"He  hasn't  said  anything  to  me  on  the  subject,"  she 
replied  evasively. 


DAVID   HARUM  91 

"Would  that  be  necessary? "  asked  her  sister. 

"Perhaps  not,"  was  the  reply,  "if  the  fact  were  very 
obvious." 

"Isn't  it?"  persisted  Mrs.  Carling,  with  unusual 
tenacity. 

"Well,"  said  the  girl,  "to  be  quite  frank  with  you,  I 
have  thought  once  or  twice  that  he  entertained  some 
such  idea— that  is — no,  I  don't  mean  to  put  it  just  that 
way.  I  mean  that  once  or  twice  something  has  occurred 
to  give  me  that  idea.  That  isn't  very  coherent,  is  it? 
But  even  if  it  be  so,"  she  went  on  after  a  moment, 
with  a  wave  of  her  hands,  "what  of  it?  What  does  it 
signify?  And  if  it  does  signify,  what  can  I  do  about 
it?" 

"You  have  thought  about  it,  then?"  said  her  sister. 

"As  much  as  I  have  told  you,"  she  answered.  "I  am 
not  a  very  sentimental  person,  I  think,  and  not  very 
much  on  the  lookout  for  such  things,  but  I  know  there 
is  such  a  thing  as  a  man's  taking  a  fancy  to  a  young 
woman  under  circumstances  which  bring  them  often 
together,  and  I  have  been  led  to  believe  that  it  isn't 
necessarily  fatal  to  the  man  even  if  nothing  comes  of 
it.  But  be  that  as  it  may,"  she  said,  with  a  shrug  of  her 
shoulders,  "what  can  I  do  about  it?  I  can't  say  to  Mr 
Lenox,  'I  think  you  ought  not  to  come  here  so  much,' 
unless  I  give  a  reason  for  it,  and  I  think  we  have  come 
to  the  conclusion  that  there  is  no  reason  except  the 
danger— to  put  it  in  so  many  words — of  his  falling 
in  love  with  me.  I  couldn't  quite  say  that  to  him, 
could  I?" 

"No,  I  suppose  not,"  acquiesced  Mrs.  Carling  faintly. 

"No,  I  should  say  not,"  remarked  the  girl.  "If  he 
were  to  say  anything  to  me  in  the  way  of — declaration 


92  DAVID   HARUM 

is  the  word,  isn't  it? — it  would  be  another  matter. 
But  there  is  no  danger  of  that." 

"Why  not,  if  he  is  fond  of  you?"  asked  her  sister. 

"Because,"  said  Mary,  with  an  emphatic  nod,  "I  won't 
let  him,"  which  assertion  was  rather  weakened  by  her 
adding,  "and  he  wouldn't,  if  I  would." 

"I  don't  understand,"  said  her  sister. 

"Well,"  said  Mary,  "I  don't  pretend  to  know  all  that 
goes  on  in  his  mind  ;  but  allowing,  or  rather  conjectur- 
ing, that  he  does  care  for  me  in  the  way  you  mean,  I 
haven't  the  least  fear  of  his  telling  me  so,  and  one  of 
the  reasons  is  this — that  he  is  wholly  dependent  upon 
his  father,  with  no  other  prospect  for  years  to  come." 

"I  had  the' idea  somehow,"  said  Mrs.  Carling,  "that 
his  father  was  very  well-to-do.  The  young  man  gives 
one  the  impression  of  a  person  who  has  always  had 
everything  that  he  wanted." 

"I  think  that  is  so,"  said  Mary,  "but  he  told  me  one 
day,  coming  over  on  the  steamer,  that  he  knew  nothing 
whatever  of  his  own  prospects  or  his  father's  affairs.  I 
don't  remember— at  least,  it  doesn't  matter— how  he 
came  to  say  as  much,  but  he  did,  and  afterward  gave 
me  a  whimsical  catalogue  of  his  acquirements  and 
accomplishments,  remarking,  I  remember,  that  there 
was  'not  a  dollar  in  the  whole  list' ;  and  lately,  though 
you  must  not  fancy  that  he  discusses  his  own  affairs 
with  me,  he  has  now  and  then  said  something  to  make 
me  guess  that  he  was  somewhat  troubled  about  them." 

"Is  he  doing  anything?"  asked  Mrs.  Carling. 

"He  told  me  the  first  evening  he  called  here,"  said 
Mary,  "that  he  was  studying  law,  at  his  father's  sug- 
gestion ;  but  I  don't  remember  the  name  of  the  firm  in 
whose  office  he  is." 


DAVID   HARUM  93 

"Why  doesn't  he  ask  his  father  about  his  prospects  ?  " 
said  Mrs.  Carling. 

Mary  laughed.  "You  seem  to  be  so  much  more  in- 
terested in  the  matter  than  I  am,"  she  said,  "why  don't 
you  ask  him  yourself? " 

To  which  unjustifiable  rejoinder  her  sister  made  no 
reply.  "I  don'-t  see  why  he  shouldn't,"  she  remarked. 

"I  think  I  understand,"  said  Mary.  "I  fancy  from 
what  he  has  told  me  that  his  father  is  a  singularly  reti- 
cent man,  but  one  in  whom  his  son  has  always  had  the 
most  implicit  confidence.  I  imagine,  too,  that,  until 
recently  at  any  rate,  he  has  taken  it  for  granted  that 
his  father  was  wealthy.  He  has  not  confided  any  mis- 
givings to  me,  but  if  he  has  any  he  is  just  the  sort  of 
person  not  to  ask  and  certainly  not  to  press  a  question 
with  his  father." 

"It  would  seem  like  carrying  delicacy  almost  too  far," 
remarked  Mrs.  Carling. 

"Perhaps  it  would,"  said  her  sister,  "but  I  think  I 
can  understand  and  sympathize  with  it." 

Mrs.  Carling  broke  the  silence  which  followed  for  a 
moment  or  two  as  if  she  were  thinking  aloud.  "You 
have  plenty  of  money,"  she  said,  and  colored  at  her 
inadvertence.  Her  sister  looked  at  her  for  an  instant 
with  a  humorous  smile,  and  then,  as  she  rose  and 
touched  the  bell  button,  said,  "That's  another  reason." 


CHAPTER   X 

I  THINK  it  should  hardly  be  imputed  to  John  as  a  fault 
or  a  shortcoming  that  he  did  not  for  a  long  time  realize 
his  father's  failing  powers.  True,  as  has  been  stated, 
he  had  noted  some  changes  in  appearance  on  his  return, 
but  they  were  not  great  enough  to  be  startling,  and, 
though  he  thought  at  times  that  his  father's  manner 
was  more  subdued  than  he  had  ever  known  it  to  be, 
nothing  really  occurred  to  arouse  his  suspicion  or 
anxiety.  After  a  few  days  the  two  men  appeared  to 
drop  into  their  accustomed  relation  and  routine,  meet- 
ing in  the  morning  and  at  dinner  ;  but  as  John  picked 
up  the  threads  of  his  acquaintance  he  usually  went  out 
after  dinner,  and  even  when  he  did  not  his  father  went 
early  to  his  own  apartment. 

From  John's  childhood  he  had  been  much  of  the  time 
away  from  home,  and  there  had  never,  partly  from  that 
circumstance  and  partly  from  the  older  man's  natural 
and  habitual  reserve,  been  very  much  intimacy  between 
them.  The  father  did  not  give  his  own  confidence,  and, 
while  always  kind  and  sympathetic  when  appealed  to, 
did  not  ask  his  son's ;  and,  loving  his  father  well  and 
loyally,  and  trusting  him  implicitly,  it  did  not  occur  to 
John  to  feel  that  there  was  anything  wanting  in  the 
relation.  It  was  as  it  had  always  been.  He  was  accus- 
tomed to  accept  what  his  father  did  or  said  without 
question,  and,  as  is  very  often  the  case,  had  always  re- 
garded him  as  an  old  man.  He  had  never  felt  that 
they  could  be  in  the  same  equation.  In  truth,  save  for 
their  mutual  affection,  they  had  little  in  common  ;  and 


DAVID   HARUM 


95 


if,  as  may  have  been  the  case,  his  father  had  any  crav- 
ings for  a  closer  and  more  intimate  relation,  he  made 
no  sign,  acquiescing  in  his  son's  actions  as  the  son  did  in 
his,  without  question  or  suggestion.  They  did  not  know 


each  other.     And  such  cases  are  not  rare,  more's  the 
pity. 

But  as  time  went  on  even  John's  unwatchful  eye 
could  not  fail  to  notice  that  all  was  not  well  with  his 
father.  Haggard  lines  were  multiplying  in  the  quiet 
face,  and  the  silence  at  the  dinner-table  was  often  un- 


96  DAVID   HARUM 

broken  except  by  John's  unfruitful  efforts  to  keep  some 
sort  of  a  conversation  in  motion.  More  and  more  fre- 
quently it  occurred  that  his  father  would  retire  to  his 
own  room  immediately  after  dinner  was  over,  and  the 
food  on  his  plate  would  be  almost  untouched,  while  he 
took  more  wine  than  had  ever  been  his  habit.  John, 
retiring  late,  would  often  hear  him  stirring  uneasily  in 
his  room,  and  it  would  be  plain  in  the  morning  that  he 
had  spent  a  wakeful,  if  not  a  sleepless,  night.  Once  or 
twice  on  such  a  morning  John  had  suggested  to  his 
father  that  he  should  not  go  down  to  the  office,  and  the 
suggestion  had  been  met  with  so  irritable  a  negative  as 
to  excite  his  wonder. 

It  was  a  day  in  the  latter  part  of  March.  The  winter 
had  been  unusually  severe,  and  lingered  into  spring 
with  a  heart-sickening  tenacity,  occasional  hints  of 
clemency  and  promise  being  followed  by  recurrences 
which  were  as  irritating  as  a  personal  affront. 

John  had  held  to  his  work  in  the  office,  if  not  with 
positive  enthusiasm,  at  least  with  industry,  and  thought 
that  he  had  made  some  progress.  On  the  day  in  ques- 
tion the  managing  clerk  commented  briefly  but  favor- 
ably on  something  of  his  which  was  satisfactory,  and, 
such  experiences  being  rare,  he  was  conscious  of  a  feel- 
ing of  mild  elation.  He  was  also  cherishing  the  antici- 
pation of  a  call  at  Sixty-ninth  Street,  where,  for  reasons 
unnecessary  to  recount,  he  had  not  been  for  a  week. 
At  dinner  that  night  his  father  seemed  more  inclined 
than  for  a  long  time  to  keep  up  a  conversation  which, 
though  of  no  special  import,  was  cheerful  in  comparison 
with  the  silence  which  had  grown  to  be  almost  the  rule, 
and  the  two  men  sat  for  a  while  over  the  coffee  and 


DAVID   HARUM  97 

cigars.  Presently,  however,  the  elder  rose  from  the 
table,  saying  pleasantly,  "I  suppose  you  are  going  out 
to-night."  ' 

"Not  if  you'd  like  me  to  stay  in,"  was  the  reply.  "I 
have  no  definite  engagement." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Mr.  Lenox,  "not  at  all,  not  at  all."  And 
as  he  passed  his  son  on  the  way  out  of  the  room  he  put 
out  his  hand,  and,  taking  John's,  said  "Good-night." 

As  John  stood  for  a  moment  rather  taken  aback,  he 
heard  his  father  mount  the  stairs  to  his  room.  He  was 
puzzled  by  the  unexpected  and  unusual  occurrence,  but 
finally  concluded  that  his  father,  realizing  how  taciturn 
they  had  become  of  late,  wished  to  resume  their  former 
status,  and  this  view  was  confirmed  to  his  mind  by  the 
fact  that  they  had  been  more  companionable  than  usual 
that  evening,  albeit  nothing  of  any  special  significance 
had  been  said.- 

As  has  been  stated,  a  longer  interval  than  usual  had 
elapsed  since  John's  last  visit  to  Sixty-ninth  Street,  a 
fact  which  had  been  commented  ,  . 

on  by  Mr.  Carling,  but  not  men- 
tioned between  the  ladies.  When 
he  found  himself  at  that  hos- 
pitable house  on  that  evening, 
he  was  greeted  by  Miss  Blake 
alone. 

"Julius  did  not  come  down  to- 
night, and  my  sister  is  with  him," 
she  said,  "so  you  will  have  to  put 
up  with  my  society — unless  you'd 
like  me  to  send  up  for  Alice.  Julius  is  strictly  en 
retraite,  I  should  say." 

"Don't  disturb  her,  I  beg,"  protested  John,  laughing, 


98  DAVID   HARUM 

and  wondering  a  bit  at  the  touch  of  coquetry  in  her 
speech,  something  unprecedented  in  his  experience  of 
her,  "if  you  are  willing  to  put  up  with  my  society.  I 
hope  Mr.  Carling  is  not  ill  ?  " 

They  seated  themselves  as  she  replied  :  "No,  nothing 
serious,  I  should  say.  A  bit  of  a  cold,  I  fancy  ;  and  for 
a  fortnight  he  has  been  more  nervous  than  usual.  The 
changes  in  the  weather  have  been  so 
great  and  so  abrupt  that  they  have  worn 
upon  his  nerves.  He  is  getting  very  un- 
easy again.  Now,  after  spending  the 
winter,  and  when  spring  is  almost  at 
hand,  I  believe  that  if  he  could  make 
up  his  mind  where  to  go  he  would  be 
for  setting  oif  to-morrow." 

"Keally?"   said   John,  in  a  tone   of 
dismay. 

"Quite  so,"  she  replied,  with  a  nod. 
"But,"  he  objected,  "it  seems  too  late 
or  too  early.     Spring  may  drop  in  upon  us  any  day. 
Isn't  this  something  very  recent?" 

"It  has  been  developing  for  a  week  or  ten  days,"  she 
answered,  "and  symptoms  have  indicated  a  crisis  for 
some  time.  In  fact,"  she  added,  with  a  little  vexed 
laugh,  "we  have  talked  of  nothing  for  a  week  but  the 
advantages  and  disadvantages  of  Florida,  California, 
North  Carolina,  South  Carolina,  and  Virginia  at  large, 
besides  St.  Augustine,  Monterey,  Santa  Barbara,  Aiken, 
Asheville,  Hot  Springs,  Old  Point  Comfort,  Bermuda, 
and  I  don't  know  how  many  other  places,  not  for- 
getting Atlantic  City  and  Lakewood ;  and  only  not 
Barbados  and  the  Sandwich  Islands  because  nobody 
happened  to  think  of  them,  Julius,"  remarked  Miss 


DAVID   HARUM  99 

Blake,  "would  have  given  a  forenoon  to  the  discussion 
of  those  two  places  as  readily  as  to  any  of  the  others." 

"Can't  you  talk  him  along  into  warm  weather?  "  sug- 
gested John,  with  rather  a  mirthless  laugh.  "Don't  you 
think  that  if  the  weather  were  to  change  for  good,  as 
it's  likely  to  do  almost  any  time  now,  he  might  put  off 
going  till  the  usual  summer  flitting  1 " 

"The  change  in  his  mind  will  have  to  come  pretty 
soon  if  I  am  to  retain  my  mental  faculties,"  she  de- 
clared. "He  might  possibly,  but  I  am  afraid  not,"  she 
said,  shaking  her  head.  "He  has  the  idea  fixed  in  his 
mind,  and  considerations  of  the  weather  here,  while 
they  got  him  started,  are  not  now  so  much  the  question. 
He  has  the  moving  fever,  and  I  am  afraid  it  will  have 
to  run  its  course.  I  think,"  she  said,  after  a  moment, 
"that  if  I  were  to  formulate  a  spe- 
cial anathema,  it  would  be,  'May 
traveling  seize  you  ! ' " 

"Or  restlessness,"  suggested  John. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "that's  more  accurate, 
perhaps,  but  it  doesn't  sound  quite  so 
smart.  Julius  is  in  that  state  of  mind  when 
the  only  place  that  seems  desirable  is  some- 
where else." 

"Of  course  you  will  have  to  go,"  said 
John  mournfully. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she   replied,  with  an  air  of 
compulsory  resignation.     "I  shall  not  only 
have  to  go,  of  course,  but  I  shall  probably          • 
have  to  decide  where,  in  order  to  save  my  mind.     But 
it  will  certainly  be  somewhere,  so  I  might  as  well  be 
packing  my  trunks." 

"And  you  will  be  away  indefinitely,  I  suppose?" 


ioo  DAVID   HARUM 

"Yes,  I  imagine  so." 

"Dear  me  ! "  John  ejaculated  in  a  dismal  tone. 
They  were  sitting  as  described  on  a  former  occasion, 
and  the  young  woman  was  engaged  upon  the  second 
(perhaps  the  third,  or  even  the  fourth)  of  the  set  of 
doilies  to  which  she  had  committed  herself.  She  took 
some  stitches  with  a  composed  air,  without  responding 
to  her  companion's  exclamation. 

"I'm  awfully  sorry,"  he  said  presently,  leaning  for- 
ward with  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  his  hands  hanging  in 
an  attitude  of  unmistakable  dejection,  and  staring 
fixedly  into  the  fire. 

"I  am  very  sorry  myself,"  she  said,  bending  her  head 
a  little  closer  over  her  work.     "I  think  I  like  being  in 
New  York  in  the  spring  better  than  at  any  other 
time  ;  and  I  don't  at  all  fancy  the  idea  of  living 
in  my  trunks  again  for  an  indefinite  period." 
"I  shall  miss  you  horribly,"  he  said,  turning 
his  face  toward  her. 

Her  eyes  opened  with  a  lift  of  the  brows, 
but  whether  the  surprise  so  indicated  was 
quite  genuine  is  a  matter  for  conjecture. 
"Yes,"  he  declared  desperately,  "I  shall,  indeed." 
"I  should  fancy  you  must  have  plenty   of  other 
friends,"  she  said,  flushing  a  little,  "and  I  have  won- 
dered sometimes  whether  Julius's  demands  upon  you 
were  not  more  confident  than  warrantable,  and  whether 
you  wouldn't  often  rather  have  gone  elsewhere  than  to 
come  here  to  play  cards  with  'him."     She  actually  said 
this  as  if  she  meant  it. 

"Do  you  suppose — "  he  exclaimed,  and  checked  him- 
self. "No,"  he  said,  "I  have  come  because — well,  I've 
been  only  too  glad  to  come,  and — I  suppose  it  has  got 


DAVID   HARUM  101 

to  be  a  habit,"  lie  added,  rather  lamely.  "You  see,  I've 
never  known  any  people  in  the  way  I  have  known  you. 
It  has  seemed  to  me  more  like  home  life  than  anything 
I've  ever  known.  There  has  never  been  any  one  but 
my  father  and  I,  and  you  can  have  no  idea  what  it  has 
been  to  me  to  be  allowed  to  come  here  as  I  have,  and 
— oh,  you  must  know — "  He  hesitated,  and  instantly 
she  advanced  her  point. 

Her  face  was  rather  white,  and  the  hand  which  lay 
upon  the  work  in  her  lap  trembled  a  little,  while  she 
clasped  the  arm  of  the  chair  with  the  other ;  but  she 
broke  in  upon  his  hesitation  with  an  even  voice  : 

"It  has  been  very  pleasant  for  us  all,  I'm  sure,"  she 
said,  "and,  frankly,  I'm  sorry  that  it  must  be  inter- 
rupted for  a  while,  but  that  is  about  all  there  is  of  it, 
isn't  it?  We  shall  probably  be  back  not  later  than 
October,  I  should  say,  and  then  you  can  renew  your 
contests  with  Julius  and  your  controversies  with  me." 

Her  tone  and  what  she  said  recalled  to  him  their  last 
night  on  board  the  ship,  but  there  was  no  relenting  on 
this  occasion.  He  realized  that  for  a  moment  he  had 
been  on  the  verge  of  telling  the  girl  that  he  loved  her, 
and  he  realized,  too,  that  she  had  divined  his  impulse 
and  prevented  the  disclosure  ;  but  he  registered  a  vow 
that  he  would  know  before  he  saw  her  again  whether 
he  might  consistently  tell  her  his  love,  and  win  or  lose 
upon  the  touch. 

Miss  Blake  made  several  inaccurate  efforts  to  intro- 
duce her  needle  at  the  exact  point  desired,  and  when 
that  endeavor  was  accomplished  broke  the  silence  by 
saying,  "Speaking  of  'October,'  have  you  read  the 
novel?  I  think  it  is  charming." 

"Yes,"  said  John,  with  his  vow  in  his  mind,  but  not 


102  DAVID   HARUM 

sorry  for  the  diversion,  "and  I  enjoyed  it  very  much. 
I  thought  it  was  immensely  clever,  but  I  confess  that  I 
didn't  quite  sympathize  with  the  love  affairs  of  a  hero 
who  was  past  forty,  and  I  must  also  confess  that  I 
thought  the  girl  was,  well — to  put  it  in  plain  English 
-a  fool." 

Mary  laughed,  with  a  little  quaver  in  her  voice.  "Do 
you  know,"  she  said,  "that  sometimes  it  seems  to  me 
that  I  am  older  than  you  are  ?  " 

"I  know  you're  awfully  wise,"  said  John,  with  a 
laugh,  and  from  that  their  talk  drifted  off  into  the  safer 
channels  of  their  usual  intercourse  until  he  rose  to  say 
good-night. 

"Of  course,  we  shall  see  you  again  before  we  go,"  she 
said  as  she  gave  him  her  hand. 

"Oh,"  he  declared,  "I  intend  regularly  to  haunt  the 
place." 


CHAPTER  XI 

WHEN  John  came  down  the  next  morning  his  father, 
who  was,  as  a  rule,  the  most  punctual  of  men,  had  not 
appeared.  He  opened  the  paper  and  sat  down  to  wait. 
Ten  minutes  passed,  fifteen,  twenty.  He  rang  the  bell. 
"Have  you  heard  my  father  this  morning?"  he  said  to 
Jeffrey,  remembering  for  the  first  time  that  he  him- 
self had  not. 

"No,  sir,"  said  the  man.  "He  most  generally  coughs 
a  little  in  the  morning,  but  I  don't  think  I  heard  him 
this  morning,  sir." 

"Go  up  and  see  why  he  doesn't  come  down,"  said 
John  ;  and  a  moment  later  he  followed  the  servant  up- 
stairs, to  find  him  standing  at  the  chamber  door  with  a 
frightened  face. 

"He  must  be  very  sound  asleep,  sir,"  said  Jeffrey. 
"He  hasn't  answered  to  my  knockin'  or  callin',  sir." 

John  tried  the  door.  He  found  the  chain-bolt  on,  and 
it  opened  but  a  few  inches.  "Father  ! "  he  called,  and 
then  again,  louder.  He  turned  almost  unconsciously  to 
Jeffrey,  and  found  his  own  apprehensions  reflected  in 
the  man's  face.  "We  must  break  in  the  door,"  he  said. 
"Now,  together  ! "  and  the  bolt  gave  way. 

His  father  lay  as  if  asleep.  "Go  for  the  doctor  at 
once  !  Bring  him  back  with  you.  Run  ! "  he  cried  to 
the  servant.  Custom  and  instinct  said,  "Send  for  the 
doctor,"  but  he  knew  in  his  heart  that  no  ministrations 
would  ever  reach  the  still  figure  on  the  bed,  upon  which, 
for  the  moment,  he  could  not  look. 

It  was  but  a  few  minutes— how  long  such  minutes 


104  DAVID   HARUM 

are  ! — before  the  doctor  came — Doctor  Willis,  who  had 
brought  John  into  the  world,  and  had  been  a  lifelong 
friend  of  both  father  and  son.  He  went  swiftly  to  the 
bed  without  speaking,  and  made  a  brief  examination, 
while  John  watched  him  with  fascinated  eyes  ;  and  as 
the  doctor  finished,  the  son  dropped  on  his  knees  by 
the  bed  and  buried  his  face  in  it. 

The  doctor  crossed  the  room  to  Jeffrey,  who  was 
standing  in  the  door  with  an  awe-stricken  face,  and  in 
a  low  voice  gave  him  some  directions.  Then,  as  the 
man  departed,  he  first  glanced  at  the  kneeling  figure 
and  next  looked  searchingly  about  the  room.  Presently 
he  went  over  to  the  grate  in  which  were  the  ashes  of  an 
extinct  fire,  and,  taking  the  poker,  pressed  down  among 
them  and  covered  over  a  three-  or  four-ounce  vial.  He 
had  found  what  he  was  looking  for. 

There  is  no  need  to  speak  of  the  happenings  of  the 
next  few  days,  nor  is  it  necessary  to  touch  at  any  length 
upon  the  history  of  some  of  the  weeks  and  months 
which  ensued  upon  this  crisis  in  John  Lenox's  life,  a 
time  when  it  seemed  to  him  that  everything  he  had 
ever  cared  for  had  been  taken.  And  yet,  with  that 
unreason  which  may  perhaps  be  more  easily  under- 
stood than  accounted  for,  the  one  thing  upon  which  his 
mind  most  often  dwelt  was  that  he  had  had  no  answer 
to  his  note  to  Mary  Blake.  We  know  what  happened 
to  her  missive.  It  turned  up  long  afterwards  in  the 
pocket  of  Master  Jacky  Carting's  overcoat— so  long 
afterwards  that  John,  as  far  as  Mary  was  concerned, 
had  disappeared  altogether.  The  discovery  of  Jacky's 
dereliction  explained  to  her,  in  part  at  least,  why  she 
had  never  seen  him  or  heard  from  him  after  that  last 


DAVID   HARUM  105 

evening  at  Sixty-ninth  Street.  The  Carlings  went  away 
some  ten  days  later,  and  she  did,  in  fact,  send  another 
note  to  his  house  address,  asking  him  to  see  them  before 
their  departure  ;  but  John  had  considered  himself  for- 
tunate in  getting  the  house  off  his  hands  to  a  tenant 
who  would  assume  the  lease  if  given  possession  at  once, 
and  had  gone  into  the  modest  apartment  which  he  oc- 
cupied during  the  rest  of  his  life  in  the  city,  and  so  the 
second  communication  failed  to  reach  him.  Perhaps  it 
was  as  well.  Some  weeks  later  he  walked  up  to  the 
Carlings'  house  one  Sunday  afternoon,  and  saw  that  it 
was  closed,  as  he  had  expected.  By  an  impulse  which 
was  not  part  of  his  original  intention — which  was,  in- 
deed, pretty  nearly  aimless— he  was  moved  to  ring  the 
door-bell ;  but  the  maid,  a  stranger  to  him,  who  opened 
the  door  could  tell  him  nothing  of  the  family's  where- 
abouts, and  Mr.  Betts  (the  house-man  in  charge)  was 
"hout."  So  John  retraced  his  steps  with  a  feeling  of 
disappointment  wholly  disproportionate  to  his  hopes 
or  expectations  so  far  as  he  had  defined  them  to  him- 
self, and  never  went  back  again. 

He  has  never  had  much  to  say  of  the  months  that 
followed. 

It  came  to  be  the  last  of  October.  An  errand  from 
the  office  had  sent  him  to  General  Wolsey  of  the 
Mutual  Trust  Company,  of  whom  mention  has  been 
made  by  David  Harum.  The  general  was  an  old  friend 
of  the  elder  Lenox,  and  knew  John  well  and  kindly. 
When  the  latter  had  discharged  his  errand  and  was 
about  to  go,  the  general  said :  "Wait  a  minute.  Are 
you  in  a  hurry?  If  not,  I  want  to  have  a  little  talk 
with  you." 

"Not  specially,"  said  John. 


io6 


DAVID   HARUM 


"Sit  down,"  said  the  general,  pointing  to  a  chair. 
"What  are  your  plans?  I  see  you  are  still  in  the 
Careys'  office,  but  from  what  you  told  me  last  summer 
I  conclude  that  you  are  there  because  you  have  not 
found  anything  more  satisfactory." 

"That  is  the  case,  sir,"  John  replied.  "I  can't  be 
idle,  but  I  don't  see  how  I  can  keep  on  as  I  am  going 
now,  and  I  have  been  trying  for  months  to  find  some- 
thing by  which  I  can  earn 
a  living.  I  am  afraid,"  he 
added,  "that  it  will  be  a 
longer  time  than  I  can 


afford  to  wait  before  I  shall  be  able  to  do  that  out 
of  the  law." 

"If  you  don't  mind  my  asking,"  said  the  general, 
"what  are  your  resources?  I  don't  think  you  told  me 
more  than  to  give  me  to  understand  that  your  father's 
affairs  were  at  a  pretty  low  ebb.  Of  course,  I  do  not 
wish  to  pry  into  your  affairs — " 

"Not  at  all,"  John  interposed  ;  "I  am  glad  to  tell  you, 
and  thank  you  for  your  interest.  I  have  about  two 


DAVID   HARUM  107 

thousand  dollars,  and  there  is  some  silver  and  odds  and 
ends  of  things  stored.  I  don't  know  what  their  value 
might  be — not  very  much,  I  fancy — and  there  were  a 
lot  of  mining  stocks  and  that  sort  of  thing  which  have 
no  value  so  far  as  I  can  find  out — no  available  value,  at 
any  rate.  There  is  also  a  tract  of  half- wild  land  some- 
where in  Pennsylvania.  There  is  coal  on  it,  I  believe, 
and  some  timber  ;  but  Melig,  my  father's  manager,  told 
me  that  all  the  large  timber  had  been  cut.  So  far  as 
available  value  is  concerned,  the  property  is  about  as 
much  of  an  asset  as  the  mining  stock,  with  the  disad- 
vantage that  I  have  to  pay  taxes  on  it." 

"H'm,"  said  the  general,  tapping  the  desk  with  his 
eye-glasses.  "H'm — well,  I  should  think  if  you  lived 
very  economically  you  would  have  about  enough  to 
carry  you  through  till  you  can  be  admitted,  provided 
you  feel  that  the  law  is  your  vocation,"  he  added,  look- 
ing up. 

"It  was  my  father's  idea,"  said  John,  "and  if  I  were 
so  situated  that  I  could  go  on  with  it,  I  would.  But 
I  am  so  doubtful  with  regard  to  my  aptitude  that  I 
don't  feel  as  if  I  ought  to  use  up  what  little  capital  I 
have,  and  some  years  of  time,  on  a  doubtful  experiment, 
and  so  I  have  been  looking  for  something  else  to  do." 

"Well,"  said  the  general,  "if  you  were  very  much 
interested — that  is,  if  you  were  anxious  to  proceed 
with  your  studies — I  should  advise  you  to  go  on,  and 
at  a  pinch  I  should  be  willing  to  help  you  out ;  but, 
feeling  as  you  do,  I  hardly  know  what  to  advise.  I 
was  thinking  of  you,"  he  went  on,  "before  you  came  in, 
and  was  intending  to  send  for  you  to  come  in  to  see 
me."  He  took  a  letter  from  his  desk.  "I  got  this  yes- 
terday," he  said.  "It  is  from  an  old  acquaintance  of 


io8  DAVID   HARUM 

mine  by  the  name  of  Harum,  who  lives  in  Homeville, 
Freeland  County.  He  is  a  sort  of  a  banker  there,  and 
has  written  me  to  recommend  some  one  to  take  the 
place  of  his  manager  or  cashier  whom  he  is  sending 
away.  It's  rather  a  queer  move,  I  think,  but  then," 
said  the  general,  with  a  smile,  "Harum  is  a  queer  cus- 
tomer in  some  ways  of  his  own.  There  is  his  letter. 
Bead  it  for  yourself." 

The  letter  stated  that  Mr.  Harum  had  had  some 
trouble  with  his  cashier  and  wished  to  replace  him,  and 
that  he  would  prefer  some  one  from  out  of  the  village 
who  wouldn't  know  every  man,  woman,  and  child  in 
the  whole  region,  and  "blab  everything  right  and  left." 
"I  should  want,"  wrote  Mr.  Harum,  "to  have  the  young 
man  know  something  about  bookkeeping  and  so  on, 
but  I  should  not  insist  upon  his  having  been  through  a 
trainer's  hands.  In  fact,  I  would  rather  break  him  in 
myself,  and  if  he's  willing  and  sound  and  no  vice,  I  can 
get  him  into  shape.  I  will  pay  a  thousand  to  start  on, 
and  if  he  draws  and  travels  all  right,  maybe  Better  in 
the  long  run,"  etc. 

John  handed  back  the  letter  with  a  slight  smile, 
which  was  reflected  in  the  face  of  the  general.  "What 
do  you  think  of  it  ?  "  asked  the  latter. 

"I  thould  think  it  might  be  very  characteristic," 
remarked  John. 

"Yes,"  said  the  general,  "it  is,  to  an  extent.  You 
see  he  writes  pretty  fair  English,  and  he  can,  on  occa- 
sion, talk  as  he  writes,  but  usually,  either  from  habit 
or  choice,  he  uses  the  most  unmitigated  dialect.  But 
what  I  meant  to  ask  you  was,  what  do  you  think  of  the 
proposal  ?  " 

"You  mean  as  an  opportunity  for  me  ?  "  asked  John. 


DAVID   HARUM  109 

"Yes,"  said  General  Wolsey,  "I  thought  of  you  at 
once." 

"Thank  you  very  much,"  said  John.  "What  would 
be  your  idea?" 

"Well,"  was  the  reply,  "I  am  inclined  to  think  I 
should  write  to  him  if  I  were  you,  and  I  will  write  to 
him  about  you  if  you  so  decide.  You  have  had  some 
office  experience,  you  told  me — enough,  I  should  say, 
for  a  foundation,  and  I  don't  believe  that  Harum's 
books  and  accounts  are  very  complicated." 

John  did  not  speak,  and  the  general  went  on :  "Of 
course,  it  will  be  a  great  change  from  almost  everything 
you  have  been  used  to,  and  I  dare  say  that  you  may 
find  the  life,  at  first  at  least,  pretty  dull  and  irksome. 
The  stipend  is  not  very  large,  but  it  is  large  for  the 
country,  where  your  expenses  will  be  light.  In  fact, 
I'm  rather  surprised  at  his  offering  so  much.  At  any 
rate,  it  is  a  living  for  the  present,  and  may  lead  to 
something  better.  The  place  is  a  growing  one,  and, 
more  than  that,  Harum  is  well  off,  and  keeps  more 
irons  in  the  fire  than  one,  and  if  you  get  on  with  him 
you  may  do  well." 

"I  don't  think  I  should  mind  the  change  so  much," 
said  John,  rather  sadly.  "My  present  life  is  so  different 
in  almost  every  way  from  what  it  used  to  be,  and  I 
think  I  feel  it  in  New  York  more  even  than  I  might  in 
a  country  village ;  but  the  venture  seems  a  little  like 
burning  my  bridges." 

"Well,"  replied  the  general,  "if  the  experiment 
should  turn  out  a  failure  for  any  reason,  you  won't  be 
very  much  more  at  a  loss  than  at  present,  it  seems  to 
me,  and  of  course  I  will  do  anything  I  can  should  you 
wish  me  to  be  still  on  the  lookout  for  you  here." 


no  DAVID   HARUM 

"You  are  exceedingly  kind,  sir,"  said  John  earnestly, 
and  then  was  silent  for  a  moment  or  two.  "I  will  make 
the  venture,"  he  said  at  length,  "and  thank  you  very 
much." 

"You  are  under  no  special  obligations  to  the  Careys, 
are  you  ?  "  asked  the  general. 

"No,  I  think  not,"  said  John,  with  a  laugh.  "I  fancy 
that  their  business  will  go  on  without  me,  after  a 
fashion,"  and  he  took  his  leave. 


CHAPTER  XII 

AND  so  it  came  about  that  certain  letters  were  written 
as  mentioned  in  a  previous  chapter,  and  in  the  evening 
of  a  dripping  day  early  in  November  John  Lenox  found 
himself,  after  a  nine  hours'  journey,  the  only  traveler 
who  alighted  upon  the  platform  of  the  Homeville  sta- 
tion, which  was  near  the  end  of  a  small  lake  and  about 
a  mile  from  the  village.  As  he  stood  with  his  bag  and 
umbrella,  at  a  loss  what  to  do,  he  was  accosted  by  a 
short  and  stubby  individual  with  very  black  eyes  and 
hair  and  a  round  face,  which  would  have  been  smooth 
except  that  it  had  not  been  shaved  for  a  day  or  two. 
"Goin'  t'  the  village?"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  said  John,  "that  is  my  intention,  but  I  don't 
see  any  way  of  getting  there." 

"Carry  ye  over  fer  ten  cents,"  said  the  man.  "Car- 
ryall's right  back  the  deepo.  Got  'ny  baggidge  ?  " 

"Two  trunks,"  said  John. 

"That'll  make  it  thirty  cents,"  said  the  native. 
"Where's  your  checks?  All  right;  you  c'n  jest  step 
round  an'  git  in.  Mine's  the  only  rig  that  drew  over 
to-night." 

It  was  a  long,  clumsy  affair,  with  windows  at  each 
end  and  a  door  in  the  rear,  but  open  at  the  sides,  except 
for  enamel-cloth  curtains,  which  were  buttoned  to  the 
supports  that  carried  a  railed  roof  extending  as  far  for- 
ward as  the  dash-board.  The  driver's  seat  was  on  a  level 
with  those  inside.  John  took  a  seat  by  one  of  the  front 
windows,  which  was  open  but  protected  by  the  roof. 

His  luggage  having  been  put  on  board,  they  began 


112 


DAVID   HARUM 


the  journey  at  a  walk,  the  first  part  of  the  road  being 

rough  and  swampy  in  places,  and  undergoing  at  inter- 
vals the  sort  of  re- 
pairs which  often 
prevails  in  rural 
regions — namely,  the 
deposit  of  a  quantity 
of  broken  stone, 
which  is  left  to  be 
worn  smooth  bypass- 
ing vehicles,  and  is 
for  the  most  part 
carefully  avoided  by 
such  whenever  the 
roadway  is  broad 
enough  to  drive 
around  the  improve- 
ment. But  the  worst 
of  the  way  having 
been  accomplished, 
the  driver  took  op- 
portunity, speaking 

sideways   over   his   shoulder,   to   allay  the   curiosity 

which  burned  within  him :  "Guess  I  never  seen  you 

before." 

John  was  tired  and  hungry,  and  generally  low  in  his 

mind.     "Very  likely  not,"-  was  his  answer. 

Mr.  Kobinson  instantly  arrived  at  the  determination 

that  the  stranger  was  "stuck  up,"  but  was  in  no  degree 

cast  down  thereby. 

"I  heard  Chet  Timson  tellin'  that  the'  was  a  feller 

coinin'  f  m  N'  York  to  work  in  Dave  Harum's  bank. 

Guess  you're  him,  ain't  ye  ? " 

Ko  answer  this  time  :  theory  confirmed. 


DAVID   HARUM  113 

"My  name's  Robinson/'  imparted  that  individual. 
"I  run  the  prince'ple  liv'ry  to  Homeville." 

"Ah  ! "  responded  the  passenger. 

"What  'd  you  say  your  name  was?  "  asked  Mr.  Robin- 
son, after  he  had  steered  his  team  around  one  of  the 
monuments  to  public  spirit. 

"It's  Lenox,"  said  John,  thinking  he  might  concede 
something  to  such  deserving  perseverance,  "but  I  don't 
remember  mentioning  it." 

"Now  I  think  on't,  I  guess  you  didn't,"  admitted  Mr. 
Robinson.  "Don't  think  I  ever  knowed  anybody  of  the 
name,"  he  remarked.  "Used  to  know  some  folks  name 
o'  Lynch,  but  they  couldn't  'a'  ben  no  relations  o'  yourn, 
I  guess." 

This  conjecture  elicited  no  reply. 

"Git  up,  goll  darn  ye  ! "  he  exclaimed,  as  one  of  the 
horses  stumbled,  and  he  gave  it  a  jerk  and  a  cut  of  the 
whip.  "Bought  that  hoss  of  Dave  Harum,"  he  confided 
to  his  passenger.  "Fact,  I  bought  both  on  'em  of  him — 
an'  dum  well  stuck  I  was,  too,"  he  added. 

"You  know  Mr.  Harum,  then,"  said  John,  with  a 
glimmer  of  interest.  "Does  he  deal  in  horses'? " 

"Wa'al,  I  guess  I  make  eout  to  know  him,"  asserted 
the  "prince'ple  liv'ryman,"  "an'  he'll  git  up  'n  the 
middle  o'  the  night 
any  time  to  git  the 
best  of  a  hoss  trade. 
Be  you  goin'  to  work 
fer  him?"  he  asked, 
encouraged  to  press 
the  question.  "Goin'  to  take  Timson's  place?" 

"Really,"  said  John,  in  a  tone  which  advanced  Mr. 
Robinson's  opinion  to  a  rooted  conviction,  "I  have 
never  heard  of  Mr.  Timson." 


114  DAVID   HARUM 

"He's  the  feller  that  Dave's  lettin'  go,"  explained 
Mr.  Kobinson.  "He's  ben  in  the  bank  a  matter  o'  five 
or  six  year,  but  Dave  got  down  on  him  fer  some  little 
thing  or  other,  an'  he's  got  his  walkin' -papers.  He 
says  to  me,  says  he,  'If  any  feller  thinks  he  c'n  come 
up  here  f'm  N'  York  or  anywheres  else,'  he  says,  'an' 
do  Dave  Harum's  work  to  suit  him,  he'll  find  he's  bit 
off  a  dum  sight  more'n  he  c'n  chaw.  He'd  better  keep 
his  gripsack  packed  the  hull  time,'  Chet  says." 

"I  thought  I'd  sock  it  to  the  cuss  a  little,"  remarked 
Mr.  Robinson,  in  recounting  the  conversation  subse- 
quently ;  and,  in  truth,  it  was  not  elevating  to  the 
spirits  of  our  friend,  who  found  himself  speculating 
whether  or  no  Timson  might  not  be  right. 

"Where  you  goin'  to  put  up?"  asked  Mr.  Robinson, 
after  an  interval,  having  failed  to  draw  out  any  re- 
sponse to  his  last  effort. 

"Is  there  more  than  one  hotel?"  inquired  the  pas- 
senger. 

"The's  the  Eagle,  an'  the  Lake  House,  an'  Smith's 
Hotel,"  replied  Jehu. 

"Which  would  you  recommend?"  asked  John. 

"Wa'al,"  said  Robinson,  "I  don't  gen'ally  praise  up 
one  more'n  another.  You  see,  I  have  more  or  less 
dealin'  with  all  on  'em." 

"That's  very  diplomatic  of  you,  I'm  sure,"  remarked 
John,  not  at  all  diplomatically.  "I  think  I  will  try 
the  Eagle." 

Mr.  Robinson,  in  his  account  of  the  conversation,  said 
in  confidence — not  wishing  to  be  openly  invidious — that 
"he  was  dum'd  if  he  wa'n't  almost  sorry  he  hadn't  recom- 
mended the  Lake  House." 

It  may  be  inferred  from  the  foregoing  that  the  first 


DAVID   HARUM  115 

impression  which  our  friend  made  on  his  arrival  was 
not  wholly  in  his  favor,  and  Mr.  Kobinson's  conviction 
that  he  was  "stuck  up,"  and  a  person  bound  to  get  him- 
self "gen'ally  disliked,"  was  elevated  to  an  article  of 
faith  by  his  retiring  to  the  rear  of  the  vehicle,  and 
quite  out  of  ordinary  range.  But  they  were  nearly  at 
their  journey's  end,  and  presently  the  carryall  drew  up 
at  the  Eagle  Hotel. 

It  was  a  frame  building  of  three  stories,  with  a  covered 
veranda  running  the  length  of  the  front,  from  which 
two  doors  gave  entrance,  one  to  the  main  hall,  the  other 
to  the  office  and  bar  combined.  This  was  rather  a  large 
room,  and  was  also  to  be  entered  from  the  hall. 

John's  luggage  was  deposited,  Mr.  Eobinson  was  set- 
tled with  and  took  his  departure  without  the  amenities 
which  might  have  prevailed  under  different  conditions, 
and  the  new  arrival  made  his  way  into  the  office. 

At  the  end  of  the  counter,  which  faced  the  street, 
was  a  glazed  case  containing  three  or  four  partly  filled 
boxes  of  forlorn-looking  cig are.  At  the  other  end  stood 
the  proprietor,  manager,  clerk,  and  what-not  of  the 
hostelry,  embodied  in  the  single  person  of  Mr.  Amos 
Elright,  engaged  in  conversation  with  two  loungers 
who  sat  about  the  room  in  chairs  tipped  back  against 
the  wall. 

A  sketch  of  Mr.  Elright  would  have  depicted  a  dull- 
"  complected  "  person  of  a  tousled  baldness,  whose  dis- 
pirited expression  of  countenance  was  enhanced  by  a 
chin  whisker.  His  shirt  and  collar  gave  unmistakable 
evidence  that  pyjamas  or  other  night-gear  were  re- 
garded as  superfluities,  and  his  most  conspicuous  gar- 
ment as  he  appeared  behind  the  counter  was  a  cardigan 
jacket  of  a  frouziness  beyond  compare.  A  greasy  neck- 


DAVID   HARUM 


scarf  was  embellished  with  a  gem  whose  truthfulness 
was  without  pretense.  The  atmosphere  of  the  room 
was  accounted  for  by  a  remark  which  was  made  by  one 
of  the  loungers  as  John  came  in.  "Say,  Ame,"  the 
fellow  drawled,  "I  guess  the'  was  more  skunk-cabbidge 
'n'  pie-plant  'n  usual  'n  that  last  lot  o'  cigars  o'  yourn, 


wa'n't  the'?"  To 
which  insinuation 
"Ame"  was  spared 
the  necessity  of  a 
rejoinder  by  our  friend's  advent. 

"Wa'al,  guess  we  c'n  give  ye  a  room. 
Oh,  yes,  you  c'n  register  if  you  want  to.  Where  is  the 
dum  thing  ?  I  seen  it  last  week  somewhere.  Oh,  yes," 
producing  a  thin  book  ruled  for  accounts  from  under 
the  counter.  "We  don't  alwus  use  it,"  he  remarked ; 
which  was  obvious,  seeing  that  the  last  entry  was  a 
month  old. 

John  concluded  that  it  was  a  useless  formality.     "I 


DAVID   HARUM  117 

should  like  something  to  eat,"  he  said,  "and  desire  to 
go  to  my  room  while  it  is  being  prepared  ;  and  can  you 
send  my  luggage  up  now?  " 

"  Wa'al,"  said  Mr.  Elright,  looking  at  the  clock,  which 
showed  the  hour  of  half  past  nine,  and  rubbing  his  chin 
perplexedly,  "supper's  ben  cleared  off  some  time  ago." 

"I  don't  want  very  much,"  said  John  ;  "just  a  bit  of 
steak,  and  some  stewed  potatoes,  and  a  couple  of  boiled 
eggs,  and  some  coffee." 

He  might  have  heard  the  sound  of  a  slap  in  the  direc- 
tion of  one  of  the  sitters. 

"I'm  'fraid  I  can't  'commodate  ye  fur's  the  steak  an' 
things  goes,"  confessed  the  landlord.  "We  don't  do 
much  cookin'  after  dinner,  an'  I  reckon  the  fire's  out 
anyway.  P'r'aps,"  he  added  doubtfully,  "I  c'd  hunt  ye 
up  a  piece  o'  pie  'n'  some  doughnuts,  or  some  thin'  like 
that." 

He  took  a  key,  to  which  was  attached  a  huge  brass 
tag  with  serrated  edges,  from  a  hook  on  a  board  behind 
the  bar— on  which  were  suspended  a  number  of  the  like 
— lighted  a  small  kerosene  lamp  carrying  a  single  wick, 
and,  shuffling  out  from  behind  the  counter,  said,  "Say, 
Bill,  can't  you  an'  Dick  carry  the  gentleman's  trunks 
up  to  13?"  and,  as  they  assented,  he  gave  the  lamp 
and  key  to  one  of  them  and  left  the  room.  The  two 
men  took  a  trunk  at  either  end  and  mounted  the  stairs, 
John  following,  and  when  the  second  one  came  up  he 
put  his  fingers  into  his  waistcoat  pocket  suggestively. 

"No,"  said  the  one  addressed  as  Dick,  "that's  all 
right.  We  done  it  to  oblige  Ame." 

"I'm  very  much  obliged  to  you,  though,"  said  John. 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  remarked  Dick  as  they  turned 
away. 


ii8  DAVID   HARUM 

John  surveyed  the  apartment.  There  were  two  small  - 
paned  windows  overlooking  the  street,  curtained  with 
bright  "Turkey-red"  cotton;  near  to  one  of  them  a 
small  wood-stove  and  a  wood-box,  containing  some 
odds  and  ends  of  sticks  and  bits  of  bark  ;  a  small  chest 
of  drawers,  serving  as  a  wash-stand ;  a  malicious  little 
looking-glass ;  a  basin  and  ewer  holding  about  two 
quarts ;  an  earthenware  mug  and  soap-dish,  the  latter 
containing  a  thin  bit  of  red  translucent  soap  scented 
with  sassafras ;  an  ordinary  wooden 
chair  and  a  rocking-chair  with  rockers 
of  divergent  aims ;  a  yellow  wooden 


bedstead  furnished  with  a  mattress  of  "excelsior"  (cal- 
culated to  induce  early  rising),  a  dingy  white  spread^ 
a  gray  blanket  of  coarse  wool,  a  pair  of  cotton  sheets 
which  had  too  obviously  done  duty  since  passing  through 
the  hands  of  the  laundress,  and  a  pair  of  flabby  little 
pillows  in  the  same  state,  in  respect  to  their  cases,  as 
the  sheets.  On  the  floor  was  a  much  used  and  faded 
ingrain  carpet,  in  one  place  worn  through  by  the  edge 
of  a  loose  board.  A  narrow  strip  of  unpainted  pine 
nailed  to  the  wall  carried  six  or  seven  wooden  pegs  to 
serve  as  wardrobe.  Two  diminutive  towels  with  red 
borders  hung  on  the  rail  of  the  wash-stand,  and  a  bat- 
tered tin  slop-jar,  minus  a  cover,  completed  the  in- 
ventory. 


DAVID    HARUM  119 

"Heavens,  what  a  hole  ! "  exclaimed  John,  and  as  he 
performed  his  ablutions  (not  with  the  sassafras  soap)  he 
promised  himself  a  speedy  flitting.  There  came  a 
knock  at  the  door,  and  his  host  appeared  to  announce 
that  his  "tea"  was  ready,  and  to  conduct  him  to  the 
dining-room — a  good-sized  apartment,  but  narrow,  with 
a  long  table  running  near  the  center  lengthwise,  covered 
with  a  cloth  which  bore  the  marks  of  many  a  fray. 
Another  table  of  like  dimensions,  but  bare,  was  shoved 
up  against  the  wall.  Mr.  Elright's  ravagement  of  the 
larder  had  resulted  in  a  triangle  of  cadaverous  apple- 
pie,  three  doughnuts,  some  chunks  of  soft  white  cheese, 
and  a  plate  of  what  are  known  as  oyster-crackers. 

"I  couldn't  git  ye  no  tea,"  he  said.  "The  hired  girls 
both  gone  out,  an'  my  wife's  gone  to  bed,  an'  the'  wa'n't 
no  fire  anyway." 

"I  suppose  I  could  have  some  beer,"  suggested  John, 
looking  dubiously  at  the  banquet. 

"We  don't  keep  no  ale,"  said  the  proprietor  of  the 
Eagle,  "an'  I  guess  we're  out  o'  lawger.  I  ben  intendin' 
to  git  some  more,"  he  added. 

"A  glass  of  milk?"  proposed  the  guest,  but  without 
confidence. 

"Milkman  didn't  come  to-night,"  said  Mr.  Elright, 
shuffling  off  in  his  carpet  slippers,  worn  out  in  spirit  by 
the  importunities  of  the  stranger. 

There  was  water  on  the  table,  for  it  had  been  left 
there  from  supper-time.  John  managed  to  consume  a 
doughnut  and  some  crackers  and  cheese,  and  then  went 
to  his  room,  carrying  the  water-pitcher  with  him,  and, 
after  a  cigarette  or  two  and  a  small  potation  from  his 
flask,  to  bed.  Before  retiring,  however,  he  stripped  the 
bed  with  the  intention  of  turning  the  sheets,  but  upon 


120  DAVID   HARUM 

inspection  thought  better  of  it,  and  concluded  to  leave 
them  as  they  were.  So  passed  his  first  night  in  Home- 
ville,  and,  as  he  fondly  promised  himself,  his  last  at  the 
Eagle  Hotel. 

When  Bill  and  Dick  returned  to  the  office  after 
"obligin'  Ame,"  they  stepped  with  one  accord  to  the 
counter  and  looked  at  the  register.  "Why,  darn 
it,"  exclaimed  Bill,  "he  didn't  sign  his  name,  after 
all ! " 

"No,"  said  Dick,  "but  I  c'n  give  a  putty  near  guess 
who  he  is,  all  the  same." 

"Some  drummer?"  suggested  Bill. 

"Naw  ! "  said  Richard  scornfully.  "What  'd  a  drum- 
mer be  doin'  here  this  time  o'  year?  That's  the  feller 
that's  ousted  Chet  Timson,  an'  I'll  bet  ye  the  drinks 
on't.  Name's  Linx  or  Lenx,  or  somethin'  like  that. 
Dave  told  me." 

"So  that's  the  feller,  is  it?"  said  Bill.  "I  guess  he 
won't  stay  round  here  long.  I  guess  you'll  find  he's  a 
little  too  tony  fer  these  parts,  an'  in  pertic'ler  fer  Dave 
Harum.  Dave'll  make  him  feel  'bout  as  comf  table  as 
a  rooster  in  a  pond.  Lord,"  he  exclaimed,  slapping  his 
leg  with  a  guffaw,  "  'd  you  notice  Ame's  face  when  he 
said  he  didn't  want  much  fer  supper,  only  beefsteak, 
an'  eggs,  an'  tea,  an'  coffee,  an'  a  few  little  things  like 
that?  I  thought  I'd  split." 

"Yes,"  said  Dick,  laughing,  "I  guess  the'  ain't  nothin' 
the  matter  with  Ame's  heart,  or  he'd  'a'  fell  down  dead. 
Hullo,  Ame ! "  he  said  when  the  gentleman  in  ques- 
tion came  back  after  ministering  to  his  guest,  "got  the 
Prince  o'  Wales  fixed  up  all  right?  Did  ye  cut  that 
pickled  el'phant  that  come  last  week  ? " 


DAVID  HARUM 


121 


"Huh  ! "  grunted  Amos,  whose  sensibilities  had  been 
wounded  by  the  events  of  the  evening,  "I  didn't  cut 
no  el'phant  ner  no  cow,  ner  rob  no  hen-roost  neither, 
but  I  guess  he  won't  starve  'fore  mornin'  "  ;  and  with 
that  he  proceeded  to  fill  up  the  stove  and  shut  the 
dampers. 

"That  means  'Git !'  I  reckon,"  remarked  Bill  as  he 
watched  the  operation. 

"Wa'al,"  said  Mr.  Elright,  "if  you  fellers  think  you've 
spent  enough  time  droolin'  round  here  swappin'  lies,  I 
think  Pll  go  to 
bed "  ;  which  in- 
hospitable and  in- 
jurious     remark 
was  by  no  means 
taken  in  bad  part, 
for  Dick  said,  with 
a  laugh : 

"Well,  Ame,  if 


you'll  let  me  run  my  face  for  'em,  Bill  'n'  I'll  take  a 
little  somethin'  for  the  good  o'  the  house  before  we  shed 
the  partin'  tear." 

This  proposition  was  not  declined  by  Mr.  Elright, 


122  DAVID   HARUM 

but  he  felt  bound  on  business  principles  not  to  yield 
with  too  great  a  show  of  readiness. 

"Wa'al,  I  don't  mind  for  this  once,"  he  said,  going 
behind  the  bar  and  setting  out  a  bottle  and  glasses,  "but 
I've  gen'ally  noticed  that  it's  a  damn  sight  easier  to  git 
somethin'  into  you  fellers  'n  't  is  to  git  anythin'  out 
of  ye." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  next  morning  at  nine  o'clock  John  presented  him- 
self at  Mr.  Harum's  banking  office,  which  occupied  the 
first  floor  of  a  brick  building  some  twenty  or  twenty- 
five  feet  in  width.  Besides  the  entrance  to  the  bank, 
there  was  a  door  at  the  south  corner  opening  upon  a 
stairway  leading  to  a  suite  of  two  rooms  on  the  second 
floor. 

The  banking  office  consisted  of  two  rooms— one  in 
front,  containing  the  desks  and  counters,  and  what  may 
be  designated  as  the  "parlor"  (as  used  to  be  the  case 
in  the  provincial  towns)  in  the  rear,  in  which  were  Mr. 
Harum's  private  desk,  a  safe  of  medium  size,  the  neces- 
sary assortment  of  chairs,  and  a  lounge.  There  was  also 
a  large  Franklin  stove. 

The  parlor  was  separated  from  the  front  room  by  a 
partition,  in  which  were  two  doors,  one  leading  into  the 
inclosed  space  behind  the  desks  and  counters,  and  the 
other  into  the  passageway  formed  by  the  north  wall  and 
a  length  of  high  desk  topped  by  a  railing.  The  teller's 
or  cashier's  counter  faced  the  street  opposite  the  en- 
trance door.  At  the  left  of  this  counter  (viewed  from 
the  front)  was  a  high-standing  desk  with  a  rail.  At 
the  right  was  a  glass-inclosed  space  of  counter  of  the 
same  height  as  that  portion  which  was  open,  across 
which  latter  the  business  of  paying  and  receiving  was 
conducted. 

As  John  entered  he  saw  standing  behind  this  open 
counter,  framed,  as  it  were,  between  the  desk  on  the 
one  hand  and  the  glass  inclosure  on  the  other,  a  person 


124 


DAVID   HARUM 


whom  he   conjectured   to  be  the  "Chet"   (short  for 
Chester)  Timson  of  whom  he  had  heard.     This  person 
nodded  in   response  to  our  friend's  "Good-morning," 
and  anticipated  his  inquiry  by  saying  : 
"You  lookin'  for  Dave?" 

"I  am  looking  for  Mr.  Harum,"  said  John.     "Is  he 
in  the  office?" 

"He  hain't  come  in  yet,"  was  the  reply.     "Up  to  the 
barn,  I  reckon.    But  he's  liable  to  come  in  any  minute, 
,,      an'  you  c'n  step  into  the 
back  room  an'  wait  fer 
him,"  indicating  the  di- 
rection with  a  wave  of 
his  hand. 

Business  had  not  begun 
to  be  engrossing,  though 
the  bank  was  open,  and 
John  had  hardly  seated 
himself  when  Timson 
came  into  the  back  room 
and,  taking  a  chair  where 
he  could  see  the  counter 
in  the  front  office,  pro- 
ceeded to  investigate  the 
stranger,  of  whose  iden- 
tity he  had  not  the  small- 
est doubt.  But  it  was  not 

Mr.  Timson's  way  to  take  things  for  granted  in  silence,  and 
it  must  be  admitted  that  his  curiosity  in  this  particular 
case  was  not  without  warrant.  After  a  scrutiny  of 
John's  face  and  person,  which  was  not  brief  enough 
to  be  unnoticeable,  he  said,  with  a  directness  which 
left  nothing  in  that  line  to  be  desired,  "I  reckon 


DAVID   HARUM  125 

you're  the  new  man  Dave's  ben  gettin'  up  from  the 
city." 

"I  came  up  yesterday,"  admitted  John. 

"My  name's  Timson,"  said  Chet. 

"Happy  to  meet  you,"  said  John,  rising  and  putting 
out  his  hand.  "My  name  is  Lenox."  And  they  shook 
hands— that  is,  John  grasped  the  ends  of  four  limp 
fingers.  After  they  had  subsided  into  their  seats, 
Chefs  opaquely  bluish  eyes  made  another  tour  of  in- 
spection, in  curiosity  and  wonder. 

"You  alwus  lived  in  the  city  ?  "  he  said  at  last. 

"It  has  always  been  my  home,"  was  the  reply. 

"What  put  it  in  your  head  to  come  up  here? "  with 
another  stare. 

"It  was  at  Mr.  Harum's  suggestion,"  replied  John, 
not  with  perfect  candor ;  but  he  was  not  minded  to  be 
drawn  out  too  far. 

"D'ye  know  Dave?" 

"I  have  never  met  him." 

Mr.  Timson  looked  more  puzzled  than  ever. 

"Ever  ben  in  the  bankin'  bus'nis?" 

"I  have  had  some  experience  of  such  accounts  in  a 
general  way." 

"Ever  keep  books?" 

"Only  as  I  have  told  you,"  said  John,  smiling  at  the 
little  man. 

"Got  any  idee  what  you'll  have  to  do  up  here?" 
asked  Chet. 

"Only  in  a  general  way." 

"Wa'al,"  said  Mr.  Timson,  "I  c'n  tell  ye ;  an',  what's 
more,  I  c'n  tell  ye,  young  man,  'tyou  hain't  no  idee  of  what 
you're  undertaking  an'  ef  you  don't  wish  you  was  back  in 
New  York  'fore  you  git  through,  I  ain't  no  guesser." 


126  DAVID   HARUM 

"That  is  possible,"  said  John  readily,  recalling  his 
night  and  his  breakfast  that  morning. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  other.  "Yes,  sir.  If  you  do  what 
I've  had  to  do,  you'll  do  the  hull  darned  thing,  an'  no- 
body to  help  you  but  Pele  Hopkins,  who  don't  count  fer 
a  row  o'  crooked  pins.  As  fur's  Dave's  concerned," 
asserted  the  speaker,  with  a  wave  of  his  hands,  "he  don't 
know  no  more  about  bankin'  'n  a  cat.  He  couldn't 
count  a  thousan'  dollars  in  an  hour ;  a,n'  as  for  addin' 
up  a  row  o'  figures,  he  couldn't  git  it  twice  alike,  I 
don't  believe,  if  he  was  to  be  hung  for't." 

"He  must  understand  the  meaning  of  his  own  books 
and  accounts,  I  should  think,"  remarked  John. 

"Oh,"  said  Chet  scornfully,  "anybody  c'd  do  that ; 
that's  easy  'nough :  but  as  fur's  the  real  bus'nis  is  con- 
cerned, he  don't  have  nothin'  to  do  with  it.  It's  all  ben 
left  to  me :  chargin'  an'  creditin',  postin',  individule 
ledger,  gen'ral  ledger,  bill-book,  discount  register,  tick- 
ler, for'n  register,  checkin'  off  the  N'  York  accounts, 
drawin'  off  statemunts  f  m  the  ledgers  an'  bill-book, 
writin'  letters — why,  the'  ain't  an  hour  'n  the  day  in 
bus'nis  hours  some  days  that  the's  an  hour  't  I  ain't 
busy  'bout  somethin'.  No,  sir,"  continued  Chet,  "Dave 
don't  give  himself  no  trouble  about  the  bus'nis.  All  he 
does  is  to  look  after  lendin'  the  money,  an'  seein'  that 
it  gits  paid  when  the  time  comes,  an'  keep  track  of  how 
much  money  the'  is  here  an'  in  W  York,  an'  what  notes 
is  comin'  due — an'  a  few  things  like  that,  that  don't  put 
pen  to  paper,  ner  take  an  hour  of  his  time.  Why,  a 
man'll  come  in  an'  want  to  git  a  note  done,  an'  it'll  be 
'All  right,'  or  'Can't  spare  the  money  to-day,'  all  in  a 
minute.  He  don't  give  it  no  thought  at  all,  an'  he  ain't 
round  here  half  the  time.  Now,"  said  Chet,  "when  I 


DAVID   HARUM  127 

work  fer  a  man  I  like  to  have  him  round  so't  I  c'n 
say  to  him,  '  Shall  I  do  it  so  or  shall  I  do  it  so  ?  Shall 
I  or  sha'n't  I ! '  An'  then  when  I  make  a  mistake—  's 
anybody's  liable  to — he's  as  much  to  blame  's  I  be." 

"I  suppose,  then,"  said  John,  "that  you  must  have  to 
keep  Mr.  Harum's  private  accounts  also,  seeing  that  he 
knows  so  little  of  details.  I  have  been  told  that  he  is 
interested  in  a.  good  many  matters  besides  this  business." 

"Wa'al,"  replied  Timson,  somewhat  disconcerted,  "I 
suppose  he  must  keep  'em  himself  in  some  kind  of  a 
fashion,  an'  I  don't  know  a  thing  about  any  outside 
matters  of  hisn,  though  I  suspicion  he  has  got  quite  a 
few.  He's  got  some  books  in  that  safe  "  (pointing  with 
his  finger),  "an'  he's  got  a  safe  in  the  vault,  but  if  you'll 
believe  me" — and  the  speaker  looked  as  if  he  hardly 
expected  it — "I  hain't  never  so  much  as  seen  the 
inside  of  either  one  on  'em.  No,  sir,"  he  declared,  "I 
hain't  no  more  idee  of  what's  in  them  safes  'n  you  have. 
He's  close,  Dave  Harum  is,"  said  Chet,  with  a  convinc- 
ing motion  of  the  head  ;  "on  the  hull,  the  clostest  man 
I  ever  see.  I  believe,"  he  averred,  "that,  if  he  was  to 
lay  out  to  keep  it  shut,  that  lightnin'  might  strike  him 
square  in  the  mouth  an'  it  wouldn't  go  in  an  eighth  of 
an  inch.  An'  yet,"  he  added,  "he  c'n  talk  by  the  rod 
when  he  takes  a  notion." 

"Must  be  a  difficult  person  to  get  on  with,"  com- 
mented John  dryly. 

"I  couldn't  stan'  it  no  longer,"  declared  Mr.  Timson, 
with  the  air  of  one  who  had  endured  to  the  end  of 
virtue,  "an'  I  says  to  him  the  other  day, '  Wa'al,'  I  says, 
'if  I  can't  suit  ye,  mebbe  you'd  better  suit  yourself.' " 

"Ah  !  "  said  John  politely,  seeing  that  some  response 
was  expected  of  him  ;  "and  what  did  he  say  to  that1? " 


128  DAVID   HARUM 

"He  ast  me,"  replied  Chet,  "if  I  meant  by  that  to 
throw  up  the  situation.  'Wa'al,'  I  says,  'I'm  sick 
enough  to  throw  up  'most  anything'  I  says,  '  along  with 
bein'  found  fault  with  fer  nothin'.' " 

"And  then?"  queried  John,  who  had  received  the 
impression  that  the  motion  to  adjourn  had  come  from 
the  other  side  of  the  house. 

"Wa'al,"  replied  Chet,  not  quite  so  confidently,  "he 
said  somethin'  about  my  requirin'  a  larger  sp'ere  of 
action,  an'  that  he  thought  I'd  do  better  on  a  mile  track 
—some  o'  his  hoss  talk.  That's  another  thing,"  said 
Timson,  changing  the  subject.  "He's  all  fer  hosses. 
He'd  sooner  make  a  ten-dollar  note  on  a  hoss  trade 
than  a  hunderd  right  here  'n  this  office.  Many's  the 
time,  right  in  bus'nis  hours,  when  I've  wanted  to  ask 
him  how  he  wanted  somethin'  done,  he'd  be  busy  talkin' 
hoss,  an'  wouldn't  pay  no  attention  to  me  more'n  's  if  I 
wa'n't  there." 

"I  am  glad  to  feel,"  said  John,  "that  you  cannot 
possibly  have  any  unpleasant  feeling  toward  me,  seeing 
that  you  resigned  as  you  did." 

"Cert'nly  not,  cert'nly  not,"  declared  Timson,  a  little 
uneasily.  "If  it  hadn't  'a'  ben  you,  it  would  'a'  had  to 
ben  somebody  else.  An'  now  I  seen  you  an'  had  a  talk 
with  you — wa'al,  I  guess  I  better  git  back  into  the 
other  room.  Dave's  liable  to  come  in  any  minute. 
But,"  he  said  in  parting,  "I  will  give  ye  piece  of  advice  : 
You  keep  enough  laid  by  to  pay  your  gettin'  back  to 
N'  York.  You  may  want  it  in  a  hurry."  And  with  this 
parting  shot  the  rejected  one  took  his  leave. 

The  bank  parlor  was  lighted  by  a  window  and  a 
glazed  door  in  the  rear  wall,  and  another  window  on 


DAVID   HARUM  129 

the  south  side.  Mr.  Harum's  desk  was  by  the  rear  or 
west  window,  which  gave  view  of  his  house,  standing 
some  hundred  feet  back  from  the  street.  The  south  or 
side  window  afforded  a  view  of  his  front  yard  and  that 
of  an  adjoining  dwelling,  beyond  which  rose  the  wall 
of  a  mercantile  block.  Business  was  encroaching  upon 
David's  domain.  Our  friend  stood  looking  out  of  the 
south  window.  To  the  left  a  bit  of  Main  Street  was 
visible,  and  the  naked  branches  of  the  elms  and  maples 
with  which  it  was  bordered  were  waving  defiantly  at 
their  rivals  over  the  way,  incited  thereto  by  a  north- 
west wind. 

We  invariably  form  a  mental  picture  of  every  un- 
known person  of  whom  we  think  at  all.  It  may  be  so 
faint  that  we  are  unconscious  of  it  at  the  time,  or  so 
vivid  that  it  is  always  recalled  until  dissipated  by  seeing 
the  person  himself,  or  his  likeness.  But  that  we  do  so 
make  a  picture  is  proved  by  the  fact  that  upon  being 
confronted  by  the  real  features  of  the  person  in  question 
we  always  experience  a  certain  amount  of  surprise,  even 
when  we  have  not  been  conscious  of  a  different  concep- 
tion of  him. 

Be  that  as  it  may,  however,  there  was  no  question  in 
John  Lenox's  mind  as  to  the  identity  of  the  person  who 
at  last  came  briskly  into  the  back  office  and  interrupted 
his  meditations.  Rather  under  the  middle  height,  he 
was  broad-shouldered  and  deep-chested,  with  a  clean- 
shaven red  face,  with,  not  a  mole,  but  a  slight  protu- 
berance the  size  of  half  a  large  pea  on  the  line  from  the 
nostril  to  the  corner  of  the  mouth  ;  bald  over  the  crown 
and  to  a  line  a  couple  of  inches  above  the  ear,  below 
that  thick  and  somewhat  bushy  hair  of  yellowish  red, 
showing  a  mingling  of  gray  ;  small  but  very  blue  eyes  j 


130  DAVID   HARUM 

a  thick  nose  of  no  classifiable  shape,  and  a  large  mouth 
with  the  lips  so  pressed  together  as  to  produce  a  slightly 
downward  and  yet  rather  humorous  curve  at  the  cor- 
ners. He  was  dressed  in  a  sack-coat  of  dark  "pepper- 
and-salt,"  with  waistcoat  and  trousers  to  match.  A 
somewhat  old-fashioned  standing  collar,  flaring  away 
from  the  throat,  was  encircled  by  a  red  cravat,  tied  in 
a  bow  under  his  chin.  A  diamond  stud  of  perhaps  two 
carats  showed  in  the  triangle  of  spotless  shirt  front,  and 
on  his  head  was  a  cloth  cap  with  ear-lappets.  He 

accosted  our  friend 
with  "I  reckon  you 
must  be  Mr.  Lenox. 
How  are  you?  I'm 
glad  to  see  you," 
tugging  off  a  thick 
buckskin  glove  and 
putting  out  a  plump 
but  muscular  hand. 
John thanked  him 
as  they  shook  hands, 
and  "hoped  he  was 

well  " 
'17777  /////// 1  /// '/  "* '     ///—47ZMM  weii. 

W  Hi  I       //SS^Wl  "Wa'al,"  said  Mr. 

1/7       /'    r?jj\\^  Harum,    "I'm    im- 

provin'  slowly.  I've 
got  so't  I  c'n  set  up 
long  enough  to  have  my  bed  made.  Come  last  night, 
I  s'pose?  Anybody  to  the  deepo  to  bring  ye  over? 
This  time  o'  year  once  'n  awhile  the'  don't  nobody  go 
over  fer  passengers." 

John  said  that  he  had  had  no  trouble  ;  a  man  by  the 
name  of  Robinson  had  brought  him  and  his  luggage. 


DAVID   HARUM  131 

"E-up !"  said  David,  with  a  nod,  backing  up  to  the 
fire  which  was  burning  in  the  grate  of  the  Franklin 
stove,  "'Dug'  Eobinson.  'D  he  do  the  p'lite  thing  in 
the  matter  of  questions  an'  gen'ral  conversation?"  he 
asked,  with  a  grin. 

John  laughed  in  reply  to  this  question. 

"Where  'd  you  put  up?"  asked  David. 

John  said  that  he  passed  the  night  at  the  Eagle  Hotel. 

Mr.  Harum  had  seen  Dick  Larrabee  that  morning 
and  heard  what  he  had  to  say  of  our  friend's  recep- 
tion, but  he  liked  to  get  his  information  from  original 
sources. 

"Make  ye  putty  comf'table?"  he  asked,  turning  to 
eject  a  mouthful  into  the  fire. 

"I  got  along  pretty  well  under  the  circumstances," 
said  John. 

Mr.  Harum  did  not  press  the  inquiry.  "How  'd  you 
leave  the  gen'ral  f"  he  inquired. 

"He  seemed  to  be  well,"  replied  John,  "and  he 
wished  to  be  kindly  remembered  to  you." 

"Fine  man,  the  gen'ral,"  declared  David,  well  pleased. 
"Fine  man  all  round.  Word's  as  good  as  his  bond. 
Yes,  sir,  when  the  gen'ral  gives  his  warrant,  I  don't 
care  whether  I  see  the  critter  or  not.  Know  him 
much?" 

"He  and  my  father  were  old  friends,  and  I  have 
known  him  a  good  many  years,"  replied  John,  adding, 
"He  has  been  very  kind  and  friendly  to  me." 

"Set  down,  set  down,"  said  Mr.  Harum,  pointing  to 
a  chair.  Seating  himself,  he  took  off  his  cap  and 
dropped  it,  with  his  gloves,  on  the  floor.  "How  long 
you  ben  here  in  the  office  ?  "  he  asked. 

"Perhaps  half  an  hour,"  was  the  reply. 


132  DAVID    HARUM 

"I  meant  to  have  ben  here  when  you  come/'  said  the 
banker,  "but  I  got  hendered  about  a  matter  of  a  hoss 
I'm  looking  at.  I  guess  I'll  shut  that  door/'  making  a 
move  toward  the  one  into  the  front  office. 

"Allow  me/'  said  John,  getting  up  and  closing  it. 

"May  's  well  shut  the  other  one  while  you're  about 
it.  Thank  you/'  as  John  resumed  his  seat.  "I  hain't 
got  nothin'  very  private,  but  I'm  'fraid  of  distractin' 
Timson's  mind.  Did  he  int'duce  himself?  " 

"Yes,"  said  John,  "we  introduced  ourselves  and  had 
a  few  minutes'  conversation." 

"Gin  ye  his  hull  hist'ry,  an'  a  few  relations  thro  wed 
in?" 

"There  was  hardly  time  for  that,"  said  John,  smiling. 

"Rubbed  a  little  furu'ture  polish  into  my  char'cter 
an'  repitation?"  insinuated  Mr.  Harum. 

"Most  of  our  talk  was  on  the  subject  of  his  duties  and 
responsibilities,"  was  John's  reply. 

("Don't  cal'late  to  let  on  any  more'n  he  cal'lates  to," 
thought  David  to  himself.) 

"Allowed  he  run  the  hull  shebang,  didn't  he?" 

"He  seemed  to  have  a  pretty  large  idea  of  what  was 
required  of  one  in  his  place,"  admitted  the  witness. 

"Kind  o'  friendly,  was  he?"  asked  David. 

"Well,"  said  John,  "after  we  had  talked  for  a  while 
I  said  to  him  that  I  was  glad  to  think  that  he  could 
have  no  unpleasant  feeling  toward  me,  seeing  that  he 
had  given  up  the  place  of  his  own  preference,  and  he 
assured  me  that  he  had  none." 

David  turned  and  looked  at  John  for  an  instant,  with 
a  twinkle  in  his  eye.  The  younger  man  returned  the 
look  and  smiled.  David  laughed  outright. 

"I  guess  you've  seen  folks  before,"  he  remarked. 


DAVID   HARUM  133 

"I  have  never  met  any  one  exactly  like  Mr.  Tinison, 
I  think,"  said  our  friend,  with  a  slight  laugh. 

"Fortunitly  them  kind  is  rare,"  observed  Mr.  Harum 
dryly,  rising  and  going  to  his  desk,  from  a  drawer  of 
which  he  produced  a  couple  of  cigars,  one  of  which  he 
proffered  to  John,  who,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life, 
during  the  next  half-hour  regretted  that  he  was  a 
smoker.  David  sat  for  two  or  three  minutes  puffing 
diligently,  and  then  took  the  weed  out  of  his  mouth 
and  looked  contemplatively  at  it. 

"How  do  you  like  that  cigar?"  he  inquired. 

"It  burns  very  nicely,"  said  the  victim. 

Mr.  Harum  emitted  a  cough  which  was  like  a 
chuckle,  or  a  chuckle  which  was  like  a  cough,  and  re- 
lapsed into  silence  again.  Presently  he  turned  his  head, 
looked  curiously  at  the  young  man  for  a  moment,  and 
then  turned  his  glance  again  to  the  fire. 

"I've  ben  wonderin'  some,"  he  said,  "pertic'lerly  since 
I  see  you,  how  't  was  't  you  wanted  to  come  up  here  to 
Homeville.  Gen'l  Wolsey  gin  his  warrant,  an'  so  I 
reckon  you  hadn't  ben  gettin'  into  no  scrape  nor 
nothin',"  and  again  he  looked  sharply  at  the  young 
man  at  his  side. 

"Did  the  general  say  nothing  of  my  affairs?"  the 
latter  asked. 

"No,"  replied  David  ;  "all 't  he  said  was  in  a  gen'ral 
way  that  he'd  knowed  you  an'  your  folks  a  good  while, 
an'  he  thought  you'd  be  jest  the  feller  I  was  lookin'  fer. 
Mebbe  he  reckoned  that  if  you  wanted  your  story  told, 
you'd  ruther  tell  it  yourself." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

WHATEVER  might  have  been  John's  repugnance  to 
making  a  confidant  of  the  man  whom  he  had  known  but 
for  half  an  hour,  he  acknowledged  to  himself  that  the 
other's  curiosity  was  not  only  natural  but  proper.  He 
could  not  but  know  that  in  appearance  and  manner  he 
was  in  marked  contrast  with  those  whom  the  man  had 
so  far  seen.  He  divined  the  fact  that  his  coming  from 
a  great  city  to  settle  down  in  a  village  town  would 
furnish  matter  for  surprise  and  conjecture,  and  felt  that 
it  would  be  to  his  advantage  with  the  man  who  was  to 
be  his  employer  that  he  should  be  perfectly  and  obvi- 
ously frank  upon  all  matters  of  his  own  which  might  be 
properly  mentioned.  He.  had  an  instinctive  feeling 

that  Harum  combined 
acuteness  and  suspi- 
ciousness  to  a  very  large 
;  degree,  and  he  had  also 
)i  a  feeling  that  the  old 
IjliLjF  man's  confidence,  once 
«y|1  gained,  would  not  be 
easily  shaken.  So  he 
told  his  hearer  so  much 
of  his  history  as  he 
thought  pertinent,  and 
David  listened  without  interruption  or  comment,  save 
an  occasional  "E-um'm." 

"And  here  I  am,"  John  remarked  in  conclusion. 
"Here  you  be,  fer  a  fact,"  said  David.     "Wa'al,  the's 


DAVID   HARUM  135 

worse  places  'n  Homeville — after  you  git  used  to  it,"  he 
added  in  qualification.  "I  ben  back  here  a  matter  o' 
thirteen  or  fourteen  year  now,  an'  am  gettin'  to  feel  my 
way  round  putty  well ;  but  not  havin'  ben  in  these  parts 
fer  putty  nigh  thirty  year,  I  found  it  ruther  lonesome 
to  start  with,  an'  I  guess  if  it  hadn't  'a'  ben  fer  Polly  I 
wouldn't  'a'  stood  it.  But  up  to  the  time  I  come  back 
she  hadn't  never  ben  ten  mile  away  f'm  here  in  her 
hull  life,  an'  I  couldn't  budge  her.  But  then,"  he  re- 
marked, "while  Homeville  ain't  a  metrop'lis,  it's  some 
a  diff  rent  place  f'm  what  it  used  to  be — in  some  icays. 
Polly's  my  sister,"  he  added  by  way  of  explanation. 

"Well,"  said  John,  with  rather  a  rueful  laugh,  "if  it 
has  taken  you  all  that  time  to  get  used  to  it,  the  outlook 
for  me  is  not  very  encouraging,  I'm  afraid." 

"  Wa'al,"  remarked  Mr.  Harum,  "I'm  apt  to  speak  in 
par'bles  sometimes.  I  guess  you'll  git  along  after  a 
spell,  though  it  mayn't  set  fust-rate  on  your  stomech 
till  you  git  used  to  the  diet,  Say,"  he  said  after  a  mo- 
ment, "if  you'd  had  a  couple  o'  thousan'  more,  do  you 
think  you'd  'a'  stuck  to  the  law  bus'nis?" 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  replied  John,  "but  I  am 
inclined  to  think  not.  General  Wolsey  told  me  that  if 
I  were  very  anxious  to  go  on  with  it  he  would  help  me, 
but  after  what  I  told  him  he  advised  me  to  write  to 
you." 

"He  did,  did  he?" 

"Yes,"  said  John,  "and  after  what  I  had  gone  through 
I  was  not  altogether  sorry  to  come  away." 

"Wa'al,"  said  Mr.  Harum  thoughtfully,  "if  I  was  to 
lose  what  little  I've  got,  an'  had  to  give  up  livin'  in  the 
way  I  was  used  to,  an'  couldn't  even  keep  a  hoss,  I  c'n 
allow 't  I  might  be  willin'  fer  a  change  of  scene  to  make 


136 


DAVID   HARUM 


a  fresh  start  in.     Yes,  sir,  I  guess  I  would.     Wa'al," 
looking  at  his  watch,  "I've  got  to  go  now,  an'  I'll  see 
ye  later,  mebbe.     You  feel  like  takin'  holt  to-day?" 
"Oh,  yes,"  said  John  with  alacrity. 
"All  right,"  said  Mr.  Harum.      "You  tell  Timson 
what  you  want,  an'  make  him  show  you  every  thin'. 
He  understands,  an'  I've  paid  him  for't.     He's  agreed 

to  stay  any  time 
/  /  .    !  in  reason 't  you 
want  him,  but 
I     guess,"     he 
added   with    a 
laugh,  "'t  you 
c'n  pump  him 
dry  'n  a  day  or 
two.     It  hain't 
x    rained  wisdom  an'  kuow- 
lidge  in  his  part  o'  the 
country  fer  a  consid'able 
spell." 

David  stood  for  a  mo- 
ment    drawing    on    his 
-*  gloves,  and  then,  looking 
at  John  with  his  character- 
istic chuckle,  continued  : 
"Allowed     he'd     ben 

drawin'  the  hull  load,  did  he?  Wa'al,  sir,  the  truth 
on't  is  't  he  never  come  to  a  hill  yet,  'f  'twa'n't  more'n 
a  foot  high,  but  what  I  had  to  git  out  an'  push ;  nor 
never  struck  a  turn  in  the  road  but  what  I  had  to 
take  him  by  the  head  an'  lead  him  into  it."  With 
which  Mr.  Harum  put  on  his  overcoat  and  cap  and 
departed. 


DAVID   HARUM  137 

Mr.  Timson  was  leaning  over  the  counter  in  animated 
controversy  with  a  man  on  the  outside  who  had  evi- 
dently asserted  or  quoted  (the  quotation  is  the  usual 
weapon  :  it  has  a  double  barb  and  can  be  wielded  with 
comparative  safety)  something  of  a  wounding  effect. 

"No,  sir,"  exclaimed  Chet,  with  a  sounding  slap  on 
the  counter,  "no,  sir  !  The'  ain't  one  word  o'  truth  in't. 
I  said  myself,  'I  won't  stan'  it,'  I  says,  'not  f'm  you  ner 
nobody  else,'  I  says,  'an'  what's  more,'  says  I — "  The 
expression  in  the  face  of  Mr.  Timson's  tormentor  caused 
that  gentleman  to  break  off  and  look  around.  The  man 
on  the  outside  grinned,  stared  at  John  a  moment,  and 
went  out,  and  Timson  turned  and  said,  as  John  came 
forward,  "Hello  !  The  old  man  picked  ye  to  pieces  all 
he  wanted  to?" 

"We  are  through  for  the  day,  I  fancy,"  said  our  friend, 
smiling,  "and  if  you  are  ready  to  begin  my  lessons  I  am 
ready  to  take  them.  Mr.  Harum  told  me  that  you 
would  be  good  enough  to  show  me  what  was  necessary." 

"All  right,"  said  Mr.  Timson  readily  enough,  and  so 
John  began  his  first  day's  work  in  David's  office.  He 
was  surprised  and  encouraged  to  find  how  much  his 
experience  in  Rush  &  Co.'s  office  stood  him  in  hand, 
and  he  managed  to  acquire  in  a  comparatively  short 
time  a  pretty  fair  comprehension  of  the  system  which 
prevailed  in  "Haruni's  bank,"  notwithstanding  the 
incessant  divagations  of  his  instructor. 

It  was  decided  between  Timson  and  our  friend  that 
on  the  following  day  the  latter  should  undertake  the 
office  work  under  supervision,  and  the  next  morning 
John  was  engaged  upon  the  preliminaries  of  the  day's 
business  when  his  employer  came  in  and  seated  himself 
at  his  desk  in  the  back  room.  After  a  few  minutes,  in 


138  DAVID   HARUM 


which  he  was  busy  with  his  letters,  he  appeared  in  the 
doorway  of  the  front  room.  He  did  not  speak,  for  John 
saw  him,  and,  responding  to  a  backward  toss  of  the  head, 
followed  him  into  the  "parlor,"  and  at  an  intimation  of 
the  same  silent  character  shut  the  doors.  Mr.  Harum 
sat  down  at  his  desk,  and  John  stood  awaiting  his 
pleasure. 

"How  'd  ye  make  out  yestid'y?"  he  asked.  "Git 
anythin'  out  of  old  tongue-tied?"  pointing  with  his 
thumb  toward  the  front  room. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  John,  smiling,  as  he  recalled  the  un- 
ceasing flow  of  words  which  had  enveloped  Timson's 
explanations. 

"How  much  longer  do  you  think  you'll  have  to  have 
him  round  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Harum. 

"Well,"  said  John,  "of  course  your  customers  are 
strangers  to  me,  but  so  far  as  the  routine  of  the  office  is 
concerned,  I  think  I  can  manage  after  to-day.  But  I 
shall  have  to  appeal  to  you  rather  often,  for  a  while, 
until  I  get  thoroughly  acquainted  with  my  work." 

"Good  fer  you,"  said  David.  "You've  took  holt  a 
good  sight  quicker' n  I  thought  ye  would,  an'  I'll  spend 
more  or  less  time  round  here  fer  a  while,  or  be  where 
you  c'n  reach  me.  It's  like  this,"  he  continued  :  "Chefs 
a  helpless  kind  of  critter,  fer  all  his  braggin'  an'  talk, 
an'  I  ben  feelin'  kind  o'  wambly  about  turnin'  him  loose 
— though  the  Lord  knows,"  he  said  with  feeling,  "'t  I've 
had  bother  enough  with  him  to  kill  a  tree.  But,  any- 
way, I  wrote  to  some  folks  I  know  up  to  Syrchester 
to  git  somethin'  fer  him  to  do,  an'  I  got  a  letter  to 
send  him  along  an'  mebbe  they'd  give  him  a  show. 
See?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  John,  "and  if  you  are  willing  to  take 


DAVID   HARUM  139 

the  chances  of  my  mistakes  I  will  undertake  to  get  on 
without  him." 

"All  right,"  said  the  banker,  "we'll  call  it  a  heat— 
and,  say,  don't  let  on  what  I've  told  ye.  I  want  to  see 
how  long  it'll  take  to  git  all  over  the  village  that  he 
didn't  ask  no  odds  o'  nobody.  Hadn't  ben  out  o'  a  job 
three  days  'fore  the'  was  a  lot  o'  chances,  an'  all  't  he 
had  to  do  was  to  take  his  pick  out  o'  the  lot  on  'em." 

"Really?  "said  John. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  David.  "Some  folks  is  gaited  that 
way.  Amusin',  ain't  it?  Hullo,  Dick !  Wa'al?" 

"Willis'll  give  two  hunderd  fer  the  sorr'l  colt,"  said 
the  incomer,  whom  John  recognized  as  one  of  the 
loungers  in  the  Eagle  bar  the  night  of  his  arrival. 

"E-um'm  ! "  said  David.  "Was  he  speakin'  of  any 
pertic'ler  colt,  or  sorril  colts  in  gen'ral?  I  hain't  got 
the  only  one  the'  is,  I  s'pose." 

Dick  merely  laughed. 

"Because,"  continued  the  owner  of  the  "sorril  colt," 
"if  Steve  Willis  wants  to  lay  in  sorril  colts  at  two  hun- 
derd apiece,  I  ain't  goin'  to  gainsay  him,  but  you  tell 
him  that  two-forty-nine  ninety-nine  won't  buy  the  one 
in  my  barn." 

Dick  laughed  again. 

John  made  a  move  in  the  direction  of  the  front  room. 

"Hold  on  a  minute,"  said  David.  "Shake  hands  with 
Mr.  Larrabee." 

"Seen  ye  before,"  said  Dick,  as  they  shook  hands ; 
"I  was  in  the  bar-room  when  ye  come  in  the  other 
night "  ;  and  then  he  laughed  as  at  the  recollection  of 
something  very  amusing. 

John  flushed  a  little,  and  said  a  bit  stiffly,  "I  remem- 
ber you  were  kind  enough  to  help  about  my  luggage." 


140  DAVID    HARUM 

"Excuse  me,"  said  Dick,  conscious  of  the  other's  man- 
ner. "I  wa'n't  laughin'  at  you,  that  is,  not  in  pertic'ler. 
I  couldn't  see  yer  face  when  Ame  offered  ye  pie  an' 
doughnuts  instid  of  beefsteak  an'  firm's ;  I  c'd  only 
guess  at  that :  but  Ame's  face  was  enough  fer  me,"  and 
Dick  went  off  into  another  cachinnation. 

David's  face  indicated  some  annoyance.  "Oh,  shet 
up  !"  he  exclaimed.  "Ye'd  keep  that  yawp  o'  yourn 
goin',  I  believe,  if  it  was  the  judgment  day." 

"Wa'al,"  said  Dick,  with  a  grin,  "I  expect  the'  might 
be  some  fun  to  be  got  out  o'  that,  if  a  feller  wa'n't  wor- 
ryin'  too  much  about  his  own  skin ;  an'  as  fur  's  I'm 
concerned — " 

Dick's  further  views  on  the  subject  of  that  momentous 
occasion  were  left  unexplained.  A  significant  look  in 
David's  face  caused  the  speaker  to  break  off  and  turn 
toward  the  door,  through  which  came  two  men,  the 
foremost  a  hulking,  shambling  fellow,  with  an  expres- 
sion of  repellent  sullenness.  He  came  forward  to  within 
about  ten  feet  of  David's  desk,  while  his  companion 
halted  near  the  door.  David  eyed  him  in  silence. 

"I  got  this  here  notice  this  mornin',"  said  the  man, 
"sayin'  't  my  note  'd  be  due  to-morrer,  an'  'd  have  to 
be  paid." 

"Wa'al,"  said  David,  with  his  arm  over  the  back  of 
his  chair  and  his  left  hand  resting  on  his  desk,  "that's 
so,  ain't  it?" 

"Mebbe  so,"  was  the  fellow's  reply,  "fur  's  the 
comin'  due  's  concerned,  but  the  payin'  part's  another 
matter." 

"Was  ye  cal'latin'  to  have  it  renewed  ?  "  asked  David, 
leaning  a  little  forward. 

"No,"  said  the  man  coolly,  "I  don't  know  's  I  want 


DAVID   HARUM  141 

to  renew  it  fer  any  pertic'ler  time,  an'  I  guess  it  c'n  run 
along  fer  a  while  jest  as  'tis." 

John  looked  at  Dick  Larrabee.  He  was  watching 
David's  face  with  an  expression  of  the  utmost  enjoy- 
ment. David  twisted  his  chair  a  little  more  to  the 
right  and  out  from  the  desk. 

"Ye  think  it  c'n  run  along,  do  ye?  "  he  asked  suavely. 
"I'm  glad  to  have  yer  views  on  the  subject.  Wa'al,  I 
guess  it  kin,  too,  until  to-morro*  at  four  o'clock,  an'  after 
that  ye  c'n  settle  with  Lawyer  Johnson  or  the  sheriff." 

The  man  uttered  a  disdainful  laugh.  "I  guess  it'll 
puzzle  ye  some  to  c'lect  it,"  he  said. 

Mr.  Harum's  bushy  red  eyebrows  met  above  his  nose. 
"Look  here,  Bill  Montaig,"  he  said,  "I  know  more 
'bout  this  matter  'n  ye  think  fer.  I  know  't  you  ben 
makin'  yer  brags  that  ye'd  fix  me  in  this  deal.  You 
allowed  that  ye'd  set  up  usury  in  the  fus'  place,  an'  if 
that  didn't  work  I'd  find  ye  was  execution-proof  any- 
ways. That's  so,  ain't  it?  " 

"That's  about  the  size  on't,"  said  Montaig,  putting 
his  feet  a  little  farther  apart. 

David  had  risen  from  his  chair. 

"Ye  didn't  talk  that  way,"  proceeded  the  latter, 
"when  ye  come  whinin'  round  here  to  git  that  money 
in  the  fus'  place,  an'  as  I  reckon  some  o'  the  facts  in 
the  case  has  slipped  out  o'  yer  mind  since  that  time,  I 
guess  I'd  better  jog  yer  mem'ry  a  little." 

It  was  plain  from  the  expression  of  Mr.  Montaig's 
countenance  that  his  confidence  in  the  strength  of  his 
position  w-as  not  quite  so  assured  as  at  first,  but  he  main- 
tained his  attitude  as  well  as  in  him  lay. 

"In  the  fus'  place,"  David  began  his  assault,  "/didn't 
lend  ye  the  money.  I  borr'ed  it  fer  ye  on  my  indorse- 


142  DAVID   HARUM 

ment,  an'  charged  ye  fer  doin'  it,  as  I  told  ye  at  the 
time  ;  an'  another  thing  that  ye  appear  to  forgit  is  that 
ye  signed  a  paper  statin'  that  you  was  wuth,  in  good 
and  available  pusson'ls,  free  and  clear,  over  five  hun- 
derd  dollars,  an'  that  the  statement  was  made  to  me 
with  the  view  of  havin'  me  indorse  yer  note  fer  one- 
fifty.  Kec'lect  that?"  David  smiled  grimly  at  the 
look  of  disconcert  which,  in  spite  of  himself,  appeared 
in  Bill's  face. 

"I  don't  remember  signin'  no  paper,"  he  said 
doggedly. 

"Jest  as  like  as  not,"  remarked  Mr.  Harum.  "What 
you  was  thinkin'  of  about  that  time  was  gittin'  that 
money." 

"I'd  like  to  see  that  paper,"  said  Bill,  with  a  pretence 
of  incredulity. 

"Ye'll  see  it  when  the  time  comes,"  asserted  David, 
with  an  emphatic  nod.  He  squared  himself,  planting 
his  feet  apart,  and,  thrusting  his  hands  deep  in  his  coat 
pockets,  faced  the  discomfited  yokel. 

"Do  ye  think,  Bill  Montaig,"  he  said,  with  measure- 
less contempt,  "that  I  didn't  know  who  I  was  dealin' 
with  ?  that  I  didn't  know  what  a  low-lived,  roost-robbin' 
skunk  ye  was?  an'  didn't  know  how  to  protect  myself 
agin  such  an'muls  as  you  be?  Wa'al,  I  did,  an'  don't 
ye  stop  thinkin'  'bout  it— an',"  he  added,  shaking  his 
finger  at  the  object  of  his  scorn,  "you'll  pay  that  note  or 
I'll  put  ye  where  the  dogs  won't  bite  ye  "  ;  and  with  that 
he  turned  on  his  heel  and  resumed  his  seat. 

Bill  stood  for  a  minute  with  a  scowl  of  rage  and  defeat 
in  his  lowering  face. 

"Got  any  further  bus'nis  with  me?"  inquired  Mr. 
Harum.  "Anythiu'  more  't  I  c'n  oblige  ye  about? " 


DAVID   HARUM  143 

There  was  no  answer. 

"I  asked  ye,"  said  David,  raising  his  voice  and  rising 
to  his  feet,  "if  ye  had  any  further  bus'nis  with  me." 

"I  duniio  's  I  have,"  was  the  sullen  response. 

"All  right,"  said  David.  "That  bein'  the  case,  an' 
as  I've  got  somethin'  to  do  besides  wastin'  my  time  on 
such  wuthless  pups  as  you  be,  I'll  thank  ye  to  git  out. 
There's  the  door,"  he  added,  pointing  to  it. 

"Ho,  ho,  ho,  ho,  ho  ! "  came  from  the  throat  of  Dick 
Larrabee. 

This  was  too  much  for  the  exasperated  Bill,  and  he 
erred  (to  put  it  mildly)  in  raising  his  arm  and  advanc- 
ing a  step  toward  his  creditor.  He  was  not  swift  enough 
to  take  the  second,  however,  for  David,  with  amazing 
quickness,  sprang  upon  him  and,  twisting  him  around, 
rushed  him  through  the  door,  down  the  passage,  and 
out  of  the  front  door,  which  was  obligingly  held  open 
by  an  outgoing  client,  who  took  in  the  situation  and 
gave  precedence  to  Mr.  Montaig.  His  companion,  who 
so  far  had  taken  no  part,  made  a  motion  to  interfere  5 
but  John,  who  stood  nearest  to  him,  caught  him  by  the 
collar  and  jerked  him  back,  with  the  suggestion  that  it 
would  be  better  to  let  the  two  have  it  out  by  them- 
selves. David  came  back  rather  breathless  and  very 
red  in  the  face,  but  evidently  in  exceeding  good  humor. 

"Scat  my—  ! "  Tie  exclaimed.  "Hain't  had  such  a 
good  tussle  I  dunno  when." 

"Bill's  considered  ruther  an  awk'ard  customer,"  re- 
marked Dick.  "I  guess  he  hain't  had  no  such  handlin' 
fer  quite  a  while." 

"Sho !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Harum.  "The'  ain't  nothin' 
to  him  but  wind  an'  meanness.  Who  was  that  feller 
with  him?" 


144  DAVID   HARUM 

"Name's  Smith,  I  believe,"  replied  Dick.  "Guess 
Bill  brought  him  along  fer  a  witness,  an'  I  reckon  he 
seen  all  he  wanted  to.  I'll  bet  his  neck's  achin'  some," 
added  Mr.  Larrabee,  with  a  laugh. 

"How's  that?"  asked  David. 

"Well,  he  made  a  move  to  tackle  you  as  you  was 
escortiii'  Bill  out,  an'  Mr.  Lenox,  there,  caught  him  in 
the  collar  an'  gin  him  a  jerk  that  'd  'a'  landed  him  on 
his  back,"  said  Dick,  "if,"  turning  to  John,  "you  hadn't 
helt  holt  of  him.  You  putty  nigh  broke  his  neck.  He 
went  off— ho,  ho,  ho,  ho,  ho  !— wriggliii'  it  to  make  sure." 

"I  used  more  force  than  was  necessary,  I'm  afraid," 
said  Billy  Williams's  pupil,  "but  there  wasn't  much 
time  to  calculate." 

"Much  obliged,"  said  David,  with  a  nod. 

"Not  at  all,"  protested  John,  laughing.  "I  have  en- 
joyed a  great  deal  this  morning." 

"It  has  ben  ruther  pleasant,"  remarked  David,  with 
a  chuckle,  "but  you  mustn't  cal'late  on  havin'  such  fun 
ev'ry  mornin'." 

John  went  into  the  business  office,  leaving  the  banker 
and  Dick. 

"Say,"  said  the  latter,  when  they  were  alone,  "that 
young  man  o'  yourn's  quite  a  feller.  He  took  care  o' 
that  big  Smith  chap  with  one  hand  ;  an'  say,  you  c'n  git 
round  on  your  pins  'bout 's  lively  's  they  make  'em,  I 
guess.  I  swan  ! "  he  exclaimed,  slapping  his  thigh  and 
shaking  with  laughter,  "the  hull  thing  head-an' -shoul- 
dered any  show  I  seen  lately."  And  then  for  a  while 
they  fell  to  talking  of  the  "sorril  colt"  and  other 
things. 


CHAPTER  XV 


WHEN  John  went  back  to  the  office  after  the  noonday 
intermission  it  was  manifest  that  something  had  hap- 
pened to  Mr.  Tirnson,  and  that  the  something  was  of  a 
nature  extremely  gratifying  to  that  worthy  gentleman. 
He  was  beaming  with  satisfaction  and  rustling  with 
importance.  Several  times  during  the  afternoon  he 
appeared  to  be  on  the  point  of  confiding  his  news,  but 
in  the  face  of  the  interruptions  which  occurred,  or 
which  he  feared  might 
check  the  flow  of  his  W\ 
communication,  he  ^ 
managed  to  restrain 
himself  till  after  the 
closing  of  the  office. 
But  scarcely  were  the  shutters 
up  (at  the  willing  hands  of 
Peleg  Hopkins)  when  he 
turned  to  John  and,  looking 
at  him  sharply,  said,  "Has 
Dave  said  anythin'  'bout  my 
leavin' ! " 

"He  told  me  he 
expected  you  would 
stay  as  long  as  might 
be  necessary  to  get 
me  well  started,"  said 
John  cautiously,  mindful  of  Mr.  Harum's  injunction. 

"Jes'  like  him,"  declared  Chet.     " Jes'  like  him,  for 
all  the  world.   But  the  fact  o'  the  matter  is 't  I'm  goin' 


146 


DAVID   HARUM 


to-morro'.  I  s'pose  he  thought,"  reflected  Mr.  Timson, 
"thet  he'd  ruther  ye'd  find  it  out  yourself  than  to  have 
to  break  it  to  ye,  'cause  then — don't  ye  see? — after  I 
was  gone  he  c'd  lay  the  hull  thing  at  my  door." 

"Really,"  said  John,  "I  should  say  that  he  ought  to 
have  told  me." 

"Wa'al,"  said  Chet  encouragingly,  "mebbe  you'll  git 
along  somehow,  though  I'm  'fraid  you'll  have  more  or 
less  trouble ;  but  I  told  Dave  that,  as  fur  's  I  c'd  see, 
mebbe  you'd  do  's  well 's  'most  anybody  he  c'd  git  that 
didn't  know  any  o'  the  customers  an'  hadn't  never 
done  any  o'  this  kind  o'  work  before." 

"Thank  you  very  much,"  said  John.  "And  so  you 
are  off  to-morrow,  are  you  ?  " 

"Got  to  be,"  declared  Mr.  Timson.  "I'd  'a'  liked  to 
stay  with  you  a  spell  longer,  but  the's  a  big  concern  f  m 
out  of  town  that,  as  soon  as  they  heard  I  was  at  libe'ty, 
wrote  for  me  to  come  right  along  up,  an'  I  s'pose  I  hadn't 
ought  to  keep  'em  waitin'." 

"No,  I  should  think  not,"  said  John,  "and  I  congratu- 
late you  upon  having  located  yourself  so  quickly." 

"Oh  ! "  said  Mr.  Timson,  with  ineffable  complacency, 
"I  hain't  give  myself  no  worry ;  I  hain't  lost  no  sleep. 

*  \  •,  "  *   *,*,  *  .  *  .Lv*  ^  *xx°        ^'ve  aU°we(l  all  along 
that  Dave  Harum  'd 
find  out  that  he  wa'n't 
the    unly    man    that 
needed    my    kind    o' 
work,    an'     I     hain't 
meanin'  any  disrispect 
to  you  when  I  say '  t — ' 
"Just  so,"  said  John.     "I  quite  understand.     Nobody 
could  expect  to  take  just  the  place  with  him  that  you 


DAVID    HARUM  147 

have  filled.  And,  by  the  way,"  he  added,  "as  you  are 
going  in  the  morning,  and  I  may  not  see  you  again, 
would  you  kindly  give  me  the  last  balance-sheets  of 
the  two  ledgers  and  the  bill -book  f  I  suppose,  of  course, 
that  they  are  brought  down  to  the  first  of  the  month, 
and  I  shall  want  to  have  them." 

"Oh,  yes,  cert'nly,  of  course — wa'al,  I  guess  Dave's 
got  'em,"  replied  Chet,  looking  considerably  discon- 
certed, "but  I'll  look  'em  up  in  the  mornin'.  My  train 
don't  go  till  ten  o'clock,  an'  I'll  see  you  'bout  any  little 
last  thing  in  the  mornin' ;  but  I  guess  I've  got  to  go  now 
on  account  of  a  lot  of  things.  You  c'n  shut  up,  can't 
ye?" 

Whereupon  Mr.  Timson  made  his  exit,  and  not  long 
afterward  David  came  in.  By  that  time  everything 
had  been  put  away,  the  safe  and  vault  closed,  and  Peleg 
had  departed  with  the  mail  and  his  freedom  for  the  rest 
of  the  day. 

"Wa'al,"  said  Mr.  Harum,  lifting  himself  to  a  seat  on 
the  counter,  "how've  you  made  out?  All  O.  K.1" 

"Yes,"  replied  John,  "I  think  so." 

"Where's  Chet?" 

"He  went  away  some  few  minutes  ago.  He  said  he 
had  a  good  many  things  to  attend  to,  as  he  was  leaving 
in  the  morning." 

"E-um'm  ! "  said  David  incredulously.  "I  guess 
'twon't  take  him  long  to  close  up  his  matters.  Did  he 
leave  ev'rything  in  good  shape?  Cash  all  right,  an' 
so  on?" 

"I  think  so,"  said  John.  "The  cash  is  right,  I  am 
sure." 

"How 'bout  the  books?" 

"I  asked  him  to  let  me  have  the  balance-sheets,  and 


148 


DAVID   HARUM 


he  said  that  you  must  have  them,  but  that  he  would 
come  in  in  the  morning  and — well,  what  he  said  was 
that  he  would  see  me  in  the  morning,  and,  as  he  put  it, 
look  after  any  little  last  thing." 

"E-mn'm  ! "  David  grunted.  "He  won't  do  no  such 
a  thing.  We've  seen  the  last  of  him,  you  bet,  an'  a 
good  riddance.  He'll  take  the  nine-o'clock  to-night, 


that's  what  he'll  do.  Drawed  his  pay,  I  guess,  didn't 
he?" 

"He  said  he  was  to  be  paid  for  this  month,"  answered 
John,  "and  took  sixty  dollars.  Was  that  right? " 

"Yes,"  said  David,  nodding  his  head  absently. 
"What  was  it  he  said  about  them  statements?"  he  in- 
quired after  a  moment. 

"He  said  he  guessed  you  must  have  them." 

"E-um'm  ! "  was  David's  comment.  "What  'd  he  say 
about  leavin'  ?  " 


DAVID   HARUM  149 

John  laughed,  and  related  the  conversation  as 
exactly  as  he  could. 

"What  'd  I  tell  ye?"  said  Mr.  Harum,  with  a  short 
laugh.  "Mebbe  he  won't  go  till  to-morro',  after  all," 
he  remarked.  "He'll  want  to  put  in  a  leetle  more 
time  tellin'  how  he  was  sent  for  in  a  hurry  by  that  big 
concern  f  m  out  of  town  't  he's  goiii'  to." 

"Upon  my  word,  I  can't  understand  it,"  said  John, 
"knowing  that  you  can  contradict  him." 

"  Wa'al,"  said  David,  "he'll  allow  that  if  he  gits  in  the 
fust  word  he'll  take  the  pole.  It  don't  matter  anyway, 
long  's  he's  gone.  I  guess  you  an'  me  c'n  pull  the  load, 
can't  we?  "  And  he  dropped  down  off  the  counter  and 
started  to  go  out.  "By  the  way,"  he  said,  halting  a 
moment,  "can't  you  come  in  to  tea  at  six  o'clock?  I 
want  to  make  ye  acquainted  with  Polly,  an'  she's  itchin' 
to  see  ye." 

"I  shall  be  delighted,"  said  John. 

"Polly,"  said  David,  "I've  ast  the  young  feller  to 
come  to  tea,  but  don't  you  say  the  word  '  Eagle '  to  him. 
You  c'n  show  your  ign'rance  'bout  all  the  other  kinds 
of  birds  an'  an'muls  you 
ain't  familiar  with,"  said 
the  unfeeling  brother,  "but 
leave  eagles  alone." 

"What  you  up  to  now?  " 
she  asked,  but  she  got  no 
answer  but  a  laugh. 

From   a  social  point  of 
view     the     entertainment 
could  not  be  described  as  a  very  brilliant  success.     Our 
friend  was  tired  and  hungry  ;  Mr.  Harum  was  unusually 


150  DAVID   HARUM 

taciturn ;  and  Mrs.  Bixbee,  being  under  her  brother's 
interdict  as  regarded  the  subject  which,  had  it  been 
allowed  discussion,  might  have  opened  the  way,  was  at 
a  loss  for  generalities.  But  John  afterward  got  upon 
terms  of  the  friendliest  nature  with  that  kindly  soul. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

SOME  weeks  after  John's  assumption  of  his  duties  in  the 
office  of  David  Harum,  Banker,  that  gentleman  sat  read- 
ing his  New  York  paper  in  the  "wing  settin'-room," 
after  tea,  and  Aunt  Polly  was  occupied  with  the  hem- 
ming of  a  towel.  The  able  editorial  which  David  was 
perusing  was  strengthening  his  conviction  that  all  the 
intelligence  and  virtue  of  the  country  were  monopolized 
by  the  Republican  party,  when  his  meditations  were 
broken  in  upon  by  Mrs.  Bixbee,  who  knew  nothing  and 
cared  less  about  the  Force  Bill  or  the  doctrine  of  pro- 
tection to  American  industries. 

"You  hain't  said  nothin'  fer  quite  a  while  about  the 
bank,"  she  remarked.  "Is  Mr.  Lenox  gittin'  along  all 
right?" 

"Guess  he's  gittin'  into  condition  as  fast  as  c'd  be  ex- 
pected," said  David,  between  two  lines  of  his  editorial. 

"It  must  be  awful  lonesome  fer  him,"  she  observed, 
to  which  there  was  no  reply. 

"Ain't  it?"  she  asked,  after  an  interval. 

"Ain't  what?"  asked  David,  looking  up  at  her. 

"Awful  lonesome,"  she  reiterated. 

"Guess  nobody  ain't  ever  very  lonesome  when  you're 
round  an'  got  your  breath,"  was  the  reply.  "What  you 
talkin'  about?" 

"I  ain't  talkin'  about  you,  't  any  rate,"  said  Mrs. 
Bixbee.  "I  was  sayin'  it  must  be  awful  lonesome  fer 
Mr.  Lenox  up  here,  where  he  don't  know  a  soul  hardly, 
an'  livin'  at  that  hole  of  a  tavern." 

"I  don't  see 't  you've  any  cause  to  complain  long 's  he 


152  DAVID   HARUM 

don't,"  said  David,  hoping  that  it  would  not  come  to 
his  sister's  ears  that  he  had,  for  reasons  of  his  own, 
discouraged  any  attempt  on  John's  part  to  better  his 
quarters,  "an'  he  hain't  ben  very  lonesome  daytimes,  I 
guess,  so  fur,  'thout  he's  ben  makin'  work  fer  himself  to 
kill  time." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Wa'al,"  said  David,  "we  found  that  Chet  hadn't 
done  more'n  to  give  matters  a  lick  an'  a  promise  in 
'most  a  year.  He  done  jest  enough  to  keep  up  the  day's 
work  an'  no  more,  an'  the  upshot  on't  is  that  John's  had 
to  put  in  consid'able  time  to  git  things  straightened  out." 

"What  a  shame  ! "  exclaimed  Aunt  Polly. 

"Keeps  him  Pm  bein'  lonesome,"  remarked  her 
brother,  with  a  grin. 

"An'  he  hain't  had  no  time  to  himself!"  she  pro- 
tested. "I  don't  believe  you've  made  up  your  mind 
yet  whether  you're  goin'  to  like  him,  an'  I  don't  believe 
he'll  stay  anyway." 

"I've  told  more'n  forty-'leven  times,"  said  Mr. 
Harum,  looking  up  over  his  paper,  "that  I  thought  we 
was  goin'  to  make  a  hitch  of  it,  an'  he  cert'nly  hain't 
said  nothiii'  'bout  leavin',  an'  I  guess  he  won't  fer  a 
while,  tavern  or  no  tavern.  He's  got  a  putty  stiff  upper 
lip  of  his  own,  I  reckon,"  David  further  remarked,  with 
a  short  laugh,  causing  Mrs.  Bixbee  to  look  up  at  him 
inquiringly,  which  look  the  speaker  answered  with  a 
nod,  saying,  "Me  an'  him  had  a  little  go-round  to-day." 

"You  hain't  had  no  icords,  hev  ye?"  she  asked 
anxiously. 

"Wa'al,  we  didn't  have  what  ye  might  call  words.  I 
was  jes'  tryin'  a  little  experiment  with  him." 

"Humph,"  she  remarked,  "you're  alwus  tryin'  exper'- 


DAVID   HARUM  153 

ments  on  somebody,  an'  you'll  be  liable  to  git  ketched 
at  it  some  day." 

"Exceptin'  on  you,"  said  David.  "You  don't  think 
I'd  try  any  experiments  on  you,  do  ye  ?  " 

"Me  ! "  she  cried.  "You're  at  me  the  hull  endurin' 
time,  an'  you  know  it." 

"Wa'al,  but,  Polly,"  said  David  insinuatingly,  "you 
don't  know  how  int'restin'  you  be." 

"Glad  you  think  so,"  she  declared,  with  a  sniff  and  a 
toss  of  the  head.  "What  you  ben  up  to  with  Mr. 
Lenox?" 

"Oh,  nothin'  much,"  replied  Mr.  Harum,  making  a 
feint  of  resuming  his  reading. 

"Be  ye  goin'  to  tell  me,  or — air  ye  too  'shamed  on't?  " 
she  added,  with  a  little  laugh,  which  somewhat  turned 
the  tables  on  her  teasing  brother. 

"Wa'al,  I  laid  out  to  try  an'  read  this  paper,"  he 
said,  spreading  it  out  on  his  lap,  "but,"  resignedly,  "I 
guess  'tain't  no  use.  Do  you  know  what  a  count'fit 
bill  is?"  he  asked. 

"I  dunno  's  I  ever  see  one,"  she  said,  "but  I  s'pose  I 
do.  They're  agin  the  law,  ain't  they  ?  " 

"The's  a  number  o'  things  that's  agin  the  law," 
remarked  David  dryly. 

"Wa'al?"  ejaculated  Mrs.  Bixbee  after  a  moment  of 
waiting. 

"Wa'al,"  said  David,  "the'  ain't  much  to  tell,  but  it's 
plain  I  don't  git  no  peace  till  you  git  it  out  of  me.  It 
was  like  this  :  The  young  feller's  took  holt  everywhere 
else  right  off,  but  handlin'  the  money  bothered  him 
consid'able  at  fust.  It  was  slow  work,  an'  I  c'd  see  it 
myself;  but  he's  gittin'  the  hang  on't  now.  Another 
thing  I  expected  he'd  run  up  agin  was  count'fits.  The' 


154  DAVID   HARUM 

ain't  so  very  many  on  'em  round  nowadays,  but  the' 
is  now  an'  then  one.     He  allowed  to  me  that  he  was 
liable  to  get  stuck  at  fust,  an'  I  reckoned  he  would. 
But  I  never  said  nothin'  about  it,  nor  ast  no  questions 
until  to-day  ;  an'  this  afternoon  I  come  in  to  look  round, 
an'  I  says  to  him,  'What  luck  have  you  had 
with   your   money?     Git    any  bad?'    I  says. 
'Wa'al,'  he  says,  colorin'  up  a  little,  'I  don't 
know  how  many  I  may  have  took 
in    an'    paid    out    agin    without 
knowin'  it,'  he  says,  'but  the'  was 
a   couple   sent   back   from   New 
York  out  o'  that  package  that  went  down  last  Friday.' 
"'What  was  they?'  I  says. 
"'A  five  an'  a  ten,'  he  says. 
"'Where  be  they?' I  says. 

'"They're  in  the  draw'  there— they're  ruther  int'- 
restin'  objects  of  study,'  he  says,  kind  o'  laughin'  on 
the  wrong  side  of  his  mouth. 

"'Countin'  'em  in  the  cash?'  I  says,  an'  with  that  he 
kind  o'  reddened  up  agin. 

"'No,  sir,'  he  says  5  'I  charged  'em  up  to  my  own 
account,  an'  I've  kept  'em  to  compare  with.' 
'"You  hadn't  ought  to  done  that,'  I  says. 
'"You  think  I  ought  to  'a'  put  'em  in  the  fire  at 
once  ? '  says  he. 

" '  No,'  I  says, '  that  wa'n't  what  I  meant.  Why  didn't 
you  mix  'em  up  with  the  other  money,  an'  let  'em  go 
when  you  was  payin'  out?  Anyways/  I  says,  'you 
charge  'em  up  to  profit  an'  loss  if  you're  goin'  to  charge 
'em  to  anythin',  an'  let  me  have  'em,'  I  says. 

'"What'll  you  do  with  'em?'  he  says  to  me,  kind  o' 
shuttin'  his  jaws  together. 


DAVID   HARUM 


155: 


"Til  take  care  on  'em,'  I  says.  'They  mayn't  be 
good  enough  to  send  down  to  New  York,'  I  says,  'but 
they'll  go  around  here  all  right— jest  as  good  as  any 
other/  I  says,  'long  's  you  keep  'em  movin'.'  " 

"David  Harum  ! "  cried  Polly,  who,  though  not  quite 
comprehending  some  of  the  technicalities  of  detail,  was 
fully  alive  to  the  turpitude  of  the  suggestion.  "I  hope 
to  gracious  he  didn't  think  you  was  in  earnest.  Why, 
s'pose  they  was  passed  around,  wouldn't  somebody  git 
stuck  with  'em,  in  the  long  run1?  You  know  they 
would."  Mrs.  Bixbee  occasionally  surprised  her  brother 
with  unexpected  penetration, 
but  she  seldom  got  much  recog- 
nition of  it. 

"I  see  by  the  paper,"  he  re- 
marked, "that  the'  was  a  man 
died  in  Pheladelphy  one  day  last 
week,"  which  piece 
of  barefaced  irrel- 
evancy elicited  no 
notice    from    Mrs. 
Bixbee. 

"What  more  did 
he      say?"      she      de- 
manded. 

"Wa'al,"  responded 
Mr.  Harum,  with  a 
laugh,  "he  said  that 
he  didn't  see  why  I 
should  be  a  loser  by  his  mistakes,  an'  that  as  fur 
as  the  bills  was  concerned  they  belonged  to  him, 
an'  with  that,"  said  the  narrator,  "Mister  Man 
gits  'em  out  of  the  draw'  an'  jes'  marches  into 


156  DAVID   HARUM 

the  back  room  an'  puts  the  dum  things  int'  the 
fire." 

"He  done  jes'  right,"  declared  Aunt  Polly,  "an'  you 
know  it,  don't  ye,  now  ?  " 

"Wa'al,"  said  David,  "f'm  his  standpoint-f m  his 
standpoint,  I  guess  he  did,  an',"  rubbing  his  chin  with 
two  fingers  of  his  left  hand,  "it's  a  putty  dum  good 
standpoint,  too.  I've  ben  lookin',"  he  added  reflec- 
tively, "fer  an  honest  man  fer  quite  a  number  o'  years, 
an'  I  guess  I've  found  him ;  yes'm,  I  guess  I've  found 
him." 

"An'  be  you  goin'  to  let  him  lose  that  fifteen  dollars  ?  " 
asked  the  practical  Polly,  fixing  her  brother  with  her 
eyes. 

"Wa'al,"  said  David,  with  a  short  laugh,  "what  c'n 
I  do  with  such  an  obst'nit  critter  's  he  is?  He  jes' 
backed  into  the  britchin',  an'  I  couldn't  do  nothin'  with 
him." 

Aunt  Polly  sat  over  her  sewing  for  a  minute  or  two 
without  taking  a  stitch.  "I'm  sorry  you  done  it,"  she 
said  at  last. 

"I  dunno  but  I  did  make  ruther  a  mess  of  it,"  ad- 
mitted Mr.  Harum. 


CHAPTER    XVII 

IT  was  the  23d  of  December,  and  shortly  after  the  clos- 
ing hour.  Peleg  had  departed,  and  our  friend  had  just 
locked  the  vault  when  David  came  into  the  office  and 
around  behind  the  counter. 

"Be  you  in  any  hurry?"  he  asked. 

John  said  he  was  not,  whereupon  Mr.  Harum  hitched 
himself  up  on  to  a  high  office  stool,  with  his  heels  on  the 
spindle,  and  leaned  sideways  upon  the  desk,  while  John 
stood  facing  him,  with  his  left  arm  upon  the  desk. 

"John,"  said  David,  "do  ye  know  the  Widdo'  Cul- 
lom?" 

"No,"  said  John,  "but  I  know  who  she  is — a  tall,  thin 
woman,  who  walks  with  a  slight  stoop  and  limp.  I 
noticed  her  and  asked  her  name,  because  there  was 
something  about  her  looks  that  attracted  my  atten- 
tion—as though  at  some  time  she  might  have  seen 
better  days." 

"That's  the  party,"  said  David.  "She  has  seen  better 
days,  but  she's  eat  an'  drunk  sorro'  mostly  fer  goin'  on 
thirty  year,  an'  darned  little  else  good  share  o'  the  time, 
I  reckon." 

"She  has  that  appearance,  certainly,"  said  John. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  David,  "she's  had  a  putty  tough  time, 
the  widdo'  has  ;  an'  yet,"  he  proceeded  after  a  momen- 
tary pause,  "the'  was  a  time  when  the  Culloms  was 
some  o'  the  king-pins  o'  this  hull  region.  They  used 
to  own  quarter  o'  the  county,  an'  they  lived  in  the  big 
house  up  on  the  hill  where  Doc  Hays  lives  now.  That 
was  considered  to  be  the  finest  place  anywheres  round 


158  DAVID   HARUM 

here  in  them  days.  I  used  to  think  the  Capitol  to 
Washington  must  be  somethin'  like  the  Cullom  house, 
an'  that  Billy  P.  (folks  used  to  call  him  Billy  P.  'cause 
his  father's  name  was  William  an'  his  was  William 
Parker),  an'  that  Billy  P.  'd  jest 's  like  's  not  be  Presi- 
dent. I've  changed  my  mind  some  on  the  subject  of 
Presidents  since  I  was  a  boy." 

Here  Mr.  Harum  turned  on  his  stool,  put  his  right 
hand  into  his  sack-coat  pocket,  extracted  therefrom 
part  of  a  paper  of  "Maple  Dew,"  and  replenished  his 
left  cheek  with  an  ample  wad  of  "fine  cut."  John  took 
advantage  of  the  break  to  head  off  what  he  had  reason 
to  fear  might  turn  into  a  lengthy  digression  from  the 
matter  in  hand  by  saying,  "I  beg  pardon,  but  how  does 
it  happen  that  Mrs.  Cullom  is  in  such  circumstances? 
Has  the  family  all  died  out?" 

"Wa'al,"  said  David,  "they're  most  on  'em  dead — all 
on  'em,  in  fact,  except  the  widdo's  son  Charley,  but  as 
fur  's  the  family  's  concerned,  it  more'n  died  out — it 
gin  out !  'D  ye  ever  hear  of  Jim  Wheton's  calf? 
Wa'al,  Jim  brought  three  or  four  veals  into  town  one 
spring  to  sell.  Dick  Larrabee  used  to  peddle  meat  them 
days.  Dick  looked  'em  over,  an'  says, l  Look  here,  Jim,' 
he  says,  'I  guess  ye  got  a  "deakin  "  in  that  lot,'  he  says. 
'I  dunno  what  ye  mean,'  says  Jim.  'Yes,  ye  do,  goll 
darn  ye  ! '  says  Dick,  '  yes,  ye  do.  Ye  didn't  never  kill 
that  calf,  an'  ye  know  it.  That  calf  died,  that's  what 
that  calf  done.  Come,  now,  own  up,'  he  says.  'Wa'al,' 
says  Jim,  'I  didn't  Ml  it,  an'  it  didn't  die  nuther— it  jes' 
kind  o'  gin  ouV  " 

John  joined  in  the  laugh  with  which  the  narrator  re- 
warded his  own  effort,  and  David  went  on :  "Yes,  sir, 
they  jes'  petered  out.  Old  Billy,  Billy  P.'s  father, 


DAVID   HARUM  159 

inher'ted  all  the  prop'ty— never  done  a  stroke  o'  work 
in  his  life.  He  had  a  collige  education,  went  to  Eu- 
rope, an'  all  that,  an'  before  he  was  fifty  year  old  he 
hardly  ever  come  near  the  old  place  after  he  was  growed 
up.  The  land  was  all  farmed  out  on  shares,  an'  his 
farmers  mostly  bamboozled  him  the  hull  time.  He  got 
consid'able  income,  of  course,  but  as  things  went  along 
and  they  found  out  how  slack  he  was,  they  kept  bitin' 
off  bigger  chunks  all  the  time,  an'  sometimes  he  didn't 
git  even  the  core.  But  all  the  time  when  he  wanted 
money— an'  he  wanted  it  putty  often,  I  tell  ye— the 
easiest  way  was  to  stick  on  a  morgige  ;  an'  after  a  spell 
it  got  so't  he'd  have  to  give  a  morgige  to  pay  the 
int'rist  on  the  other  morgiges." 

"But,"  said  John,  "was  there  nothing  to  the  estate 
but  land?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  David,  "old  Billy's  father  left  him 
some  consid'able  pusson'l,  but  after  that  was  gone  he 
went  into  the  morgige  bus'nis,  as  I  tell  ye.  He  lived 
mostly  up  to  Syrchester  and  around,  an'  when  he  got 
married  he  bought  a  place  in  Syrchester  and  lived 
there  till  Billy  P.  was  about  twelve  or  thirteen  year 
old  an'  he  was  about  fifty.  By  that  time  he'd  got  'bout 
to  the  end  of  his  rope,  an'  the'  wa'n't  uothin'  for  it  but 
to  come  back  here  to  Homeville  an'  make  the  most  o' 
what  the'  was  left— an'  that's  what  he  done,  let  alone 
that  he  didn't  make  the  most  on't  to  any  pertic'ler  ex- 
tent. Mis'  Cullom,  his  wife,  wa'n't  no  help  to  him. 
She  was  a  city  woman  an'  didn't  take  to  the  country 
noway,  but  when  she  died  it  broke  old  Billy  up  wuss  'n 
ever.  She  peaked  an'  pined,  an'  died  when  Billy  P. 
was  about  fifteen  or  so.  Wa'al,  Billy  P.  an'  the  old  man 
wrastled  along  somehow,  an'  the  boy  went  to  collige  fer 


160  DAVID   HARUM 

a  year  or  so.  How  they  ever  got  along  's  they  did  I 
dunno.  The'  was  a  story  that  some  far-off  relation  left 
old  Billy  some  money,  an'  I  guess  that  an'  what  they 
got  off 'n  what  farms  was  left  carried  'em  along  till  Billy 
P.  was  twenty-five  or  so,  an'  then  he  up  an'  got  mar- 
ried. That  was  the  crowniii'  stroke,"  remarked  David. 
"She  was  one  o'  the  village  girls— respectable  folks, 
more'n  ordinary  good-lookin'  an'  high-steppin',  an'  had 
had  some  schoolin'.  But  the  old  man  was  prouder  'n 
a  cock-turkey,  an'  thought  nobody  wa'n't  quite  good 
enough  fer  Billy  P.,  an'  all  along  kind  o'  reckoned  that 
he'd  marry  some  money  an'  git  a  new  start.  But  when 
he  got  married — on  the  quiet,  you  know,  'cause  he 
knowed  the  old  man  would  kick— wa'al,  that  killed  the 
trick,  an'  the  old  man  into  the  bargain.  It  took  the 
gumption  all  out  of  him,  an'  he  didn't  live  a  year. 
Wa'al,  sir,  it  was  curious,  but,  's  I  was  told,  putty  much 
the  hull  village  sided  with  the  old  man.  The  Culloms 
was  kind  o'  kings  in  them  days,  an'  folks  wa'n't  so  one- 
man's-good's-anotherish  as  they  be  now.  They  thought 
Billy  P.  done  wrong,  though  they  didn't  have  nothin'  to 
say  'gainst  the  girl,  neither — an'  she's  very  much  re- 
spected, Mis'  Cullom  is  ;  an'  as  fur's  I'm  concerned,  I've 
alwus  guessed  she  kept  Billy  P.  goin'  full  as  long 's  any 
one  could.  But  'twa'n't  no  use — that  is  to  say,  the 
sure  thing  come  to  pass.  He  had  a  nom'nal  title  to  a 
good  deal  o'  prop'ty,  but  the  equity  in  most  on't,  if  it 
had  ben  to  be  put  up,  wa'n't  enough  to  pay  fer  the 
papers.  You  see,  the'  ain't  never  ben  no  real  cash 
value  in  farm  prop'ty  in  these  parts.  The'  ain't  ben 
hardly  a  dozen  changes  in  farm  titles,  'cept  by  inher't- 
ance  or  foreclosure,  in  thirty  years.  So  Billy  P.  didn't 
make  no  effort.  Int'rist's  one  o'  them  things  that  keeps 


DAVID   HARUM  161 

right  on,  nights  an'  Sundays.  He  jest  had  the  deeds 
made  out  an'  handed  'em  over  when  the  time  came  to 
settle.  The'  was  some  village  lots,  though,  that  was 
clea^,  that  fetched  him  in  some  money  from  time  to 
time  until  they  was  all  gone  but  one,  an'  that's  the  one 
Mis'  Cullom  lives  on  now.  It  was  consid'able  more'n 
a  lot— in  fact,  a  putty  sizable  place.  She  thought  the 
sun  rose  an'  set  where  Billy  P.  was,  but  she  took  a 
crotchit  in  her  head,  an'  wouldn't  ever  sign  no  papers 
fer  that,  an'  lucky  fer  him,  too.  The'  was  a  house  on  to 
it,  an'  he  had  a  roof  over  his  head  anyway  when  he 
died,  six  or  seven  years  after  he  married,  an'  left  her 
with  a  boy  to  raise.  How  she  got  along  all  them  years 
till  Charley  got  big  enough  to  help,  I  swan !  I  don't 
know.  She  took  in  sewin'  and  washin',  an'  went  out  to 
cook  an'  nurse,  an'  all  that,  but  I  reckon  the'  was  now 
an'  then  times  when  they  didn't  overload  their  stomechs 
much,  nor  have  to  open  the  winders  to  cool  off.  But 
she  held  on  to  that  prop'ty  of  hern  like  a  pup  to  a  root. 
It  was  putty  well  out  when  Billy  P.  died,  but  the  vil- 
lage has  growed  up  to  it.  The's  some  good  lots  could 
be  cut  out  on't,  an'  it  backs  up  to  the  river  where  the 
current's  enough  to  make  a  mighty  good  power  fer  a 
'lectric  light.  I  know  some  fellers  that  are  talkin'  of 
startin'  a  plant  here,  an'  it  ain't  out  o'  sight  that  they'd 
pay  a  good  price  fer  the  river-front,  an'  enough  land  to 
build  on.  Fact  on't  is,  it's  got  to  be  a  putty  valu'ble 
piece  o'  prop'ty,  more'n  she  cal'lates  on,  I  reckon." 

Here  Mr.  Harum  paused,  pinching  his  chin  with 
thumb  and  index-finger,  and  mumbling  his  tobacco. 
John,  who  had  listened  with  more  attention  than  in- 
terest— wondering  the  while  as  to  what  the  narrative 
was  leading  up  to— thought  something  might  properly 


162  DAVID   HARUM 

be  expected  of  him  to  show  that  he  had  followed  it, 
and  said,  "So  Mrs.  Cullom  has  kept  this  last  piece  clear, 
has  she?" 

"No,"  said  David,  bringing  down  his  right  hand  upon 
the  desk  with  emphasis,  "that's  jes'  what  she  hain't 
done,  an'  that's  how  I  come  to  tell  ye  somethin'  of  the 
story,  an'  more  on't  'n  you've  cared  about  hearin', 
mebbe." 

"Not  at  all,"  John  protested.  "I  have  been  very 
much  interested." 

"You  have,  have  you?  "  said  Mr.  Harum.  "Wa'al,  I 
got  somethin'  I  want  ye  to  do.  Day  after  to-morro'  's 
Chris'mus,  an'  I  want  ye  to  drop  Mis'  Cullom  a  line, 
somethin'  like  this :  that  Mr.  Harum  told  ye  to  say 
that  that  morgige  he  holds,  havin'  ben  past  due  fer  some 
time,  an'  no  int'rist  havin'  ben  paid  fer,  let  me  see, 
more'n  a  year,  he  wants  to  close  the  matter  up,  an' 
he'll  see  her  Chris'mus  mornin'  at  the  bank  at  nine 
o'clock,  he  havin'  more  time  on  that  day ;  but  that,  as 
fur  as  he  can  see,  the  bus'nis  won't  take  very  long — 
somethin'  like  that ;  you  understand  ?  " 

"Very  well,  sir,"  said  John,  hoping  that  his  employer 
would  not  see  in  his  face  the  disgust  and  repugnance  he 
felt  as  he  surmised  what  a  scheme  was  on  foot,  and  re- 
called what  he  had  heard  of  Harum's  hard  and  un- 
scrupulous ways— though  he  had  to  admit  that  this, 
excepting  perhaps  the  episode  of  the  counterfeit  money, 
was  the  first  revelation  to  him  personally.  But  this 
seemed  very  bad  indeed. 

"All  right,"  said  David  cheerfully.  "I  s'pose  it  won't 
take  you  long  to  find  out  what's  in  your  stockin',  an'  if 
you  hain't  nothin'  else  to  do  Chris'mus  mornin'  I'd  like 
to  have  you  open  the  office  and  stay  round  a  spell  till  I 


DAVID   HARUM  163 

git  through  with  Mis'  Cullom.  Mebbe  the'  '11  be  some 
papers  to  fill  out  or  witniss  or  somethin' ;  an'  have  that 
skeezicks  of  a  boy  make  up  the  fires  so'st  the  place'll  be 
warm." 

"Very  good,  sir,"  said  John,  hoping  that  the  inter- 
view was  at  an  end. 

But  the  elder  man  sat  for  some  minutes,  apparently 
in  a  brown  study,  and  occasionally  a  smile  of  sardonic 
cunning  wrinkled  his  face.  At  last  he  said  :  "I've  told 
ye  so  much  that  I  may  as  well  tell  ye  how  I  come  by 
that  morgige.  'Twon't  take  but  a  minute,  an'  then  you 
can  run  an'  play,"  he  added  with  a  chuckle. 

"I  trust  I  have  not  betrayed  any  impatience,"  said 
John,  and  instantly  conscious  of  his  infelicitous  expres- 
sion, added  hastily,  "I  have  really  been  very  much 
interested." 

"Oh,  no,"  was  the  reply,  "you  hain't  betrayed  none, 
but  I  know  old  fellers  like  me  gen'ally  tell  a  thing 
twice  over  while  they're  at  it.  Wa'al,"  he  went  on,  "it 
was  like  this:  After  Charley  Cullom  got  to  be  some 
grown  he  helped  to  keep  the  pot  a-bilin',  'n'  they  got 
on  some  better.  'Bout  seven  year  ago,  though,  he  up 
an'  got  married,  an'  then  the  fat  ketched  fire.  Finely 
he  allowed  that  if  he  had  some  money  he'd  go  West  'n' 
take  up  some  land,  'n'  git  along  like  pussly  'n  a  flower- 
gard'n.  He  ambitioned  that  if  his  mother'd  raise  a 
thousan'  dollars  on  her  place  he'd  be  sure  to  take  care 
of  the  int'rist,  an'  prob'ly  pay  off  the  princ'ple  in  al- 
most no  time.  Wa'al,  she  done  it,  an'  off  he  went. 
She  didn't  come  to  me  fer  the  money,  because — I  dunno 
—at  any  rate  she  didn't,  but  got  it  of  'Zeke  Swinney. 

"Wa'al,  it  turned  out  jest  's  any  fool  might' ve  pre- 
dilictid,  fer  after  the  fust  year,  when  I  reckon  he  paid 


164  DAVID    HARUM 

it  out  of  the  thousan',  Charley  never  paid  no  int'rist. 
The  second  year  he  was  jes'  gettin'  goin',  an'  the  next 
year  he  lost  a  hoss  jes'  's  he  was  cal'latin'  to  pay,  an' 
the  next  year  the  grasshoppers  smote  him,  'n'  so  on  ;  an' 
the  outcome  was  that  at  the  end  of  five  years,  when  the 
morgige  had  one  year  to  run,  Charley 'd  paid  one  year, 
an'  she'd  paid  one,  an'  she  stood  to  owe  three  years' 
int'rist.  How  old  Swinney  come  to  hold  off  so  was  that 
she  used  to  pay  the  cuss  ten  dollars  or  so  ev'ry  six 
months  'n'  git  no  credit  fer  it,  an'  no  receipt  an'  no 
witniss,  'n'  he  knowed  the  prop'ty  was  improvin'  all 
the  time.  He  may  have  had  another  reason,  but  at  any 
rate  he  let  her  run,  and  got  the  shave  reg'lar.  But  at 
the  time  I'm  tellin'  you  about  he'd  begun  to  cut  up,  an' 
allowed  that  if  she  didn't  settle  up  the  int'rist  he'd 
foreclose,  an'  I  got  wind  on't,  an'  I  run  across  her  one 
day  an'  got  to  talkin'  with  her,  an'  she  gin  me  the  hull 
narration.  l  How  much  do  you  owe  the  old  critter  ? '  I 
says.  'A  hunderd  an'  eighty  dollars,'  she  says,  'an' 
where  I'm  goin'  to  git  it,'  she  says,  'the  Lord  only 
knows.'  'An'  He  won't  tell  ye,  I  reckon,'  I  says. 
Wa'al,  of  course  I'd  known  that  Swinney  had  a  mor- 
gige, because  it  was  a  matter  of  record,  an'  I  knowed 
him  well  enough  to  give  a  guess  what  his  game  was 
goin'  to  be ;  an'  more'n  that,  I'd  had  my  eye  on  that 
piece  an'  parcel,  an'  I  figured  that  he  wa'n't  any  likelier 
a  citizen  'n  I  was." 

"Yes,"  said  John  to  himself,  "where  the  carcass  is 
the  vultures  are  gathered  together." 

"'Wa'al,'  I  says  to  her,  after  we'd  had  a  little  more 
talk,  's'posin'  you  come  round  to  my  place  to-morro' 
'bout  'leven  o'clock,  an'  mebbe  we  c'n  cipher  this  thing 
out.  I  don't  say  positive  that  we  kin,'  I  says,  'but 


DAVID   HARUM 


,65 


mebbe,  mebbe.'  So  that  afternoon  I  sent  over  to  the 
county-seat  an'  got  a  description  an'  had  a  second  mor- 
gige  drawed  up  fer  two  hunderd  dollars,  an'  Mis'  Cullom 
signed  it  mighty  quick.  I  had  the  morgige  made  one 
day  after  date, 
'cause,  as  I 
said  to  her, 
it  was  in  the 
nature  of  a 
temp'rary 
loan,butshe 
was  so  tick- 
led she'd1 
have  signed 
'most  any- 
thin' at  that 
pertic'lertime.  'Now,' 
I  says  to  her,  'you  go 
an'  settle  with  old 
Step-an'-fetch-it,  but 
don't  you  say  a  word 
where  you  got  the 
money,'  I  says.  'Don't  ye  let  on  nothin'— stretch  that 
conscience  o7  yourn,  if  nec'sary,'  I  says,  'an'  be  pertic'- 
ler,  if  he  asks  you  if  Dave  Harum  give  ye  the  money, 
you  jes'  say,  "No,  he  didn't."  That  won't  be  no  lie,'  I 
says,  'because  I  ain't  givin1  it  to  ye,'  I  says.  Wa'al,  she 
done  as  I  told  her.  Of  course  Swinney  suspicioned  fust 
off  that  I  was  mixed  up  in  it,  but  she  stood  him  off  so 
fair  an'  square  that  he  didn't  know  jes'  what  to  think  ; 
but  his  claws  was  cut  fer  a  spell,  anyway. 

"Wa'al,  things  went  on  fer  a  while,  till  I  made  up 
my  mind  that  I  ought  to  relieve  Swinney  of  some  of 


i66 


DAVID   HARUM 


his  anxieties  about  worldly  bus'nis,  an'  I  dropped  in  on 
him  one  mornin'  an'  passed  the  time  o'  day,  an'  after 
we'd  eased  up  our  minds  on  the  subjects  of  each  other's 
health  an'  such  like,  I  says,  'You  hold  a  morgige  on 
the  Widdo'  Cullom's  place,  don't  ye?'  Of  course  he 
couldn't  say  nothin'  but  yes.  'Does  she  keep  up  the 
int'rist  all  right?'  I  says.  'I  don't  want  to  be  pokin' 
my  nose  into  your  bus'nis,'  I  says,  'an'  don't  tell  me 
nothin'  you  don't  want  to.'  Wa'al,  he  knowed  Dave 
Harum  was  Dave  Harum,  an'  that  he  might  's  well 
speak  it  out,  an'  he  says,  'Wa'al,  she  didn't  pay  nothin' 
fer  a  good  while,  but  last  time  she  forked  over  the  hull 
amount.  But  I  hain't  no  notion,'  he  says,  'that  she'll 
come  to  time  agin.'  'An'  s'posin'  she  don't,'  I  says, 
'you'll  take  the  prop'ty,  won't  ye?'  'Don't  see 

no  other  way,'  he  says, 
an'  lookin'  up  quick, 
'  unless  you  overbid  me,' 
he  says.  'No,'  I  says, 
''I  ain't  buy  in'  no  real 
estate  jes'  now ;  but  the 
thing  I  come  in  fer,'  I 
says,  'leavin'  out  the 
pleasure  of  havin'  a 
talk  with  you,  was  to  say 
that  I'd  take  that  mor- 
gige off'n  your  hands.' 
"Wa'al,  sir— he,  he, 
he,  he  !  Scat  my —  ! 
At  that  he  looked  at  me  fer  a  minute  with  his  jaw  on  his 
neck,  an'  then  he  hunched  himself 'n'  drawed  in  his  neck 
like  a  mud-turtle.  '  No,'  he  says, '  I  ain't  sufferin'  fer  the 
money,  an'  I  guess  I'll  keep  the  morgige.  It's  putty 


DAVID   HARUM  167 

near  due  now,  but  mebbe  I'll  let  it  run  a  spell.  I  guess 
the  secur'ty's  good  fer  it.'  '  Yes/  I  says, '  I  reckon  you'll 
let  it  run  long  enough  fer  the  widdo'  to  pay  the  taxes 
on't  once  more,  anyhow ;  I  guess  the  secur'ty's  good 
enough  to  take  that  resk  ;  but  how  'bout  my  secur'ty  f ' 
I  says.  'What  d'you  mean?'  he  says.  'I  mean,'  says 
I,  'that  I've  got  a  second  morgige  on  that  prop'ty,  an' 
I  begin  to  tremble  fer  my  secur'ty.  You've  jes'  told 
me,'  I  says,  'that  you're  goin'  to  foreclose,  an'  I  cal'late 
to  protect  myself,  an'  I  don't  cal'late,'  I  says, t  to  have  to 
go  an'  bid  on  that  prop'ty,  an'  put  in  a  lot  more  money 
to  save  my  investment,  unless  I'm  'bleeged  to— not 
much  !  an'  you  can  jes'  sign  that  morgige  over  to  me, 
an'  the  sooner  the  quicker,'  I  says." 

David  brought  his  hand  down  on  his  thigh  with  a 
vigorous  slap,  the  fellow  of  the  one  which,  John  could 
imagine,  had  emphasized  his  demand  upon  Swin- 
ney.  The  story,  to  which  he  had  at  first  listened 
with  polite  patience  merely,  he  had  found  more 
interesting  as  it  went  on,  and,  excusing  himself,  he 
brought  up  a  stool,  and  mounting  it,  said,  "And  what 
did  Swinney  say  to  that?"  Mr.  Harum  emitted  a 
gurgling  chuckle,  yawned  his  quid  out  of  his  mouth, 
tossing  it  over  his  shoulder  in  the  general  direction 
of  the  waste-basket,  and  bit  off  the  end  of  a  cigar 
which  he  found  by  slapping  his  waistcoat  pockets. 
John  got  down  and  fetched  him  a  match,  which 
he  scratched  in  the  vicinity  of  his  hip  pocket, 
lighted  his  cigar  (John  declining  to  join  him  on  some 
plausible  pretext,  having  on  a  previous  occasion  ac- 
cepted one  of  the  brand),  and  after  rolling  it  around 
with  his  lips  and  tongue  to  the  effect  that  the  lighted 
end  described  sundry  eccentric  curves,  located  it  firmly 


168  DAVID  HARUM 

with  an  upward  angle  in  the  left-hand  corner  of  his 
mouth,  gave  it  a  couple  of  vigorous  puffs,  and  replied 
to  John's  question  : 

"Wa'al,  'Zeke  Swinney  was  a  perfesser  of  religion 
some  years  ago,  an'  mebbe  he  is  now,  but  what  he  said 
to  me  on  this  pertic'ler  occasion  was  that  he'd  see  me  in 
hell  fust,  an'  then  he  wouldn't. 

"'Wa'al,'  I  says,  'mebbe  you  won't,  mebbe  you  will ; 
it's  alwus  a  pleasure  to  meet  ye,'  I  says,  '  but  in  that 
case  this  morgige  bus'nis  '11  be  a  question  fer  our  ex- 
ecutors,' I  says,  'fer  you  don't  never  foreclose  that  mor- 
gige, an'  don't  you  fergit  it,'  I  says. 

''"Oh,  you'd  like  to  git  holt  o'  that  prop'ty  yourself. 
I  see  what  you're  up  to,'  he  says. 

"'Look  a-here,  'Zeke  Swinney/  I  says,  'I've  got  an 
int'rist  in  that  prop'ty,  an'  I  propose  to  p'tect  it.  You're 
goin'  to  sign  that  morgige  over  to  me,  or  I'll  foreclose 
and  surrygate  ye,'  I  says,  'unless  you  allow  to  bid  in 
the  prop'ty,  in  which  case  we'll  see  whose  weasel-skin's 
the  longest.  But  I  guess  it  won't  come  to  that,'  I  says. 
'You  kin  take  your  choice,'  I  says.  'Whether  I  want 
to  git  holt  o'  that  prop'ty  myself  ain't  neither  here  nor 
there.  Mebbe  I  do,  an'  mebbe  I  don't.  But  anyways,'  I 
says,  'you  don't  git  it,  nor  wouldn't  ever,  fer  if  I  can't 
make  you  sign  over,  I'll  either  do  what  I  said  or  I'll 
back  the  widdo'  in  a  defense  fer  usury.  Put  that  in 
your  pipe  an'  smoke  it,'  I  says. 

"'What  do  you  mean?'  he  says,  gittin'  half  out  his 
chair. 

"'I  mean  this,'  I  says:  'that  the  fust  six  months 
the  widdo'  couldn't  pay  she  gin  you  ten  dollars  to 
hold  off,  an'  the  next  time  she  gin  you  fifteen,  an' 
that  you've  bled  her  fer  shaves  to  the  tune  of  sixty- 


DAVID   HARUM 


169 


odd  dollars  in  three  years,  an'  then  got  your  int'rist  in 
full.' 

"That  riz  him  clean  out  of  his  chair,"  said  David. 
"'She  can't  prove  it,'  he  says,  shakin'  his  fist  in  the  air. 

"'Oh,  ho,  ho  ! '  I  says,  tippin'  my  chair  back  agin  the 
wall.  'If  Mis'  Cullom  was  to  swear  how  an'  where  she 
paid  you  the  money,  givin'  chapter  an'  verse,  an' 
showin'  her  own  mem'randums  even,  an'  I  was  to  swear 
that  when  I  twitted  you  with  gittin'  it  you 
didn't  deny  it,  but  only  said  that  she 
couldn't  prove  it,  how  long  do  you  think 


it  'd  take  a  Freeland  County  jury  to  find  agin  ye? 
I  allow,  'Zeke  Swinney,'  I  says,  'that  you  wa'n't  born 
yestid'y,  but  you  ain't  so  old  as  you  look,  not  by  a  dum 
sight ! '  An'  then  how  I  did  laugh  ! 

"  Wa'al,"  said  David,  as  he  got  down  off  the  stool  and 
stretched  himself,  yawning,  "I  guess  I've  yarned  it 


i;o  DAVID   HARUM 

enough  fer  one  day.  Don't  fergit  to  send  Mis'  Cullom 
that  notice,  an'  make  it  up  an'  up.  I'm  goin'  to  git 
the  thing  off  my  mind  this  trip." 

"Very  well,  sir,"  said  John,  "but  let  me  ask,  did 
Swinney  assign  the  mortgage  without  any  trouble  ?  " 

"O  Lord  !  yes,"  was  the  reply.  "The'  wa'n't  nothin' 
else  fer  him  to  do.  I  had  another  twist  on  him  that  I 
hain't  mentioned.  But  he  put  up  a  great  show  of  doin' 
it  to  obleege  me.  Wa'al,  I 
thanked  him  an'  so  on,  an' 
when  we'd  got  through  I  ast 
him  if  he  wouldn't  step  over 
to  the  Eagle  an'  take  some- 
thin',  an'  he  looked  kind  o'  shocked  an'  said  he  never 
drinked  nothin' ;  it  was  'gin  his  princ'ples,  he  said. 
Ho,  ho,  ho,  ho  !  Scat  my — !  Princ'ples  ! "  And  John 
heard  him  chuckling  to  himself  all  the  way  out  of  the 
office. 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

CONSIDERING  John's  relations  with  David  Harum,  it 
was  natural  that  he  should  wish  to  think  as  well  of  him 
as  possible,  and  he  had  not  (or  thought  he  had  not) 
allowed  his  mind  to  be  influenced  by  the  disparaging 
remarks  and  insinuations  which  had  been  made  to  him, 
or  in  his  presence,  concerning  his  employer.  He  had 
made  up  his  mind  to  form  his  opinion  upon  his  own 
experience  with  the  man,  and  so  far  it  had  not  only  been 
pleasant  but  favorable,  and  far  from  justifying  the  half- 
jeering,  half-malicious  talk  that  had  come  to  his  ears. 
It  had  been  made  manifest  to  him,  it  was  true,  that 
David  was  capable  of  a  sharp  bargain  in  certain  lines, 
but  it  seemed  to  him  that  it  was  more  for  the  pleasure 
of  matching  his  wits  against  another's  than  for  any  gain 
involved.  Mr.  Harum  was  an  experienced  and  expert 
horseman,  who  delighted  above  all  things  in  dealing  in 
and  trading  horses ;  and  John  soon  discovered  that,  in 
that  community  at  least,  to  get  the  best  of  a  "hoss 
trade"  by  almost  any  means  was  considered  a  venial 
sin,  if  a  sin  at  all",  and  the  standards  of  ordinary  busi- 
ness probity  were  not  expected  to  govern  those  trans- 
actions. 

David  had  said  to  him  once,  when  he  suspected 
that  John's  ideas  might  have  sustained  something 
of  a  shock,  "A  hoss  trade  ain't  like  anythin'  else. 
A  feller  may  be  straighter  'n  a  string  in  ev'rythin: 
else,  an'  never  tell  the  truth-that  is,  the  hull 
truth— about  a  hoss.  I  trade  hosses  with  hoss- 
traders.  They  all  think  they  know  as  much  as  I  do, 


172  DAVID   HARUM 

an'  I  dunno  but  what  they  do.  They  hain't  learnt  no 
diff 'rent,  anyway,  an'  they've  had  chances  enough.  If 
a  feller  come  to  me  that  didn't  think  he  knowed  any- 
thin'  about  a  hoss,  an'  wanted  to  buy  on  the  square, 
he'd  git,  fur 's  I  knew,  square  treatment.  At  any  rate, 
I'd  tell  him  all  't  I  knew.  But  when  one  o'  them 
smart  Alecks  comes  along  and  cal'lates  to  do  up  oP 
Dave,  why,  he's  got  to  take  his  chances,  that's  all.  An' 
mind  ye,"  asserted  David,  shaking  his  forefinger  im- 
pressively, "  it  ain't  only  them  fellers.  I've  ben  wuss 
stuck  two  three  time  by  church -members  in  good 
standin'  than  anybody  I  ever  dealed  with.  Take  old 
Deakin  Perkins.  He's  a  terrible  feller  fer  church 
bus'nis  ;  c'ri  pray  an'  psalm-sing  to  beat  the  Jews,  an'  in 
speritual  matters  c'n  read  his  title  clear  the  hull  time  ; 
but  when  it  comes  to  hoss-tradin'  you  got  to  git  up 
very  early  in  the  mornin'  or  he'll  skin  the  eye-teeth 
out  of  ye.  Yes,  sir !  Scat  iny —  !  I  believe  the  old 
critter  makes  hosses !  But  the  deakin,"  added  David, 
"  he,  he,  he,  he !  the  deakin  hain't  hardly  spoke  to 
me  fer  some  consid'able  time,  the  deakin  hain't.  He, 
he,  he! 

"  Another  thing,"  he  went  on.  "  The'  ain't  no 
gamble  like  a  hoss.  You  may  think  you  know  him 
through  an'  through,  an'  fust  thing  you  know  he'll  be 
cuttin'  up  a  lot  o'  didos  right  out  o'  nothin'.  It  stands  to 
reason  that  sometimes  you  let  a  hoss  go  all  on  the  square 
— as  you  know  him — an'  the  feller  that  gits  him  don't 
know  how  to  hitch  him  or  treat  him,  an'  he  acts  like  a 
diff'rent  hoss,  an'  the  feller  allows  you  swindled  him. 
You  see,  hosses  gits  used  to  places  an'  ways  to  a  certain 
extent,  an'  when  they're  changed,  why,  they're  apt  to  act 
diff'rent.  Hosses  don't  know  but  dreadful  little,  really. 


DAVID   HARUM 


173 


Talk    about    hoss    sense— wa'al,    the'    ain't    no    sech 
thing." 

Thus  spoke  David  on  the  subject  of  his  favorite 
pursuit  and  pastime,  and  John  thought  then  that  he 
could  understand  and  condone  some  things  he  had 
seen  and  heard,  at  which  at  first  he  was  inclined  to 
look  askance.  But  this  matter  of  the^  Widow  Cullorn's 
was  a  different  thing,  and  as  he  realized  that  he  was 
expected  to  play  a  part,  though  a  small  one,  in  it, 
his  heart  sank  within  him  that  he  had  so  far  cast  his 
fortunes  upon  the  good  will  of  a  man  who  could  plan 
and  carry  out  so  heartless  and  cruel  an  undertaking  as 
that  which  had  been  revealed  to  him  that  afternoon. 
He  spent  the  evening  in  his  room  trying  to  read,  but 
the  widow's  affairs  persistently  thrust  themselves  upon 
his  thoughts.  All  the  unpleasant  stories  he  had  heard 
of  David  came  to  his  mind,  and  he  remembered  with 
misgiving  some  things  which  at  the  time  had  seemed 
regular  and  right  enough,  but  which  took 
on  a  different  color  in  the  light  in  which 
he  found  himself  recalling  them.  He 
debated  with  himself  whether  he  should 
not  decline  to  send  Mrs.  Cullom  the  notice 
as  he  had  been  instructed,  and  left  it 
an  open  question  when  he  went  to  bed. 

He  wakened  some- 
what earlier  than 
usual,  to  find  that  the 
thermometer  had  gone 
up  and  the  barometer 
down.  The  air  was  full  of  a  steady  downpour,  half 
snow,  half  rain,  about  the  most  disheartening  combina- 
tion which  the  worst  climate  in  the  world— that  of  cen- 


DAVID   HARUM 


tral  New  York— can  furnish.  He  passed  rather  a  busy 
day  in  the  office,  in  an  atmosphere  redolent  of  the  un- 
savory odors  raised  by  the  proximity  of  wet  boots  and 
garments  to  the  big  cylinder  stove  outside  the  counter, 
a  compound  of  stale  smells  from  kitchen  and  stable. 

After  the  bank  closed  he  dispatched  Peleg  Hopkins, 
the  office  boy,  with  the  note  for  Mrs.  Cullom.  He  had 
abandoned  his  half-formed  intention  to  revolt,  but  had 
made  the  note  not  only  as  little  peremptory  as  was  com- 
patible with  a  clear  intimation  of  its  purport  as  he 
understood  it,  but  had  yielded  to  a  natural  impulse  in 
beginning  it  with  an  expression  of  personal  regret — a 
blunder  which  cost  him  no  little 
chagrin  in  the  outcome. 

Peleg  Hopkins  grumbled  audibly 
when  he  was  requested  to  build 
the  fires  on  Christmas  day,  and 
±f_  _  expressed  his  opinion 
that  "if  there  warn't 
Bible  agin  workin'  on 
Chris'mus,  the'  'd  ort  ter 
be "  ;   but  when   John 
opened  the  door  of  the  bank 
that  morning  he  found  the  tem- 
perature in  comfortable  contrast 
to  the  outside  air.     The  weather 
had  changed  again,  and  a  blind- 
accompanied    by   a    buffeting    gale 


s--: 
snow-storm, 


from  the  northwest,  made  it  almost  impossible  to  see  a 
path  and  to  keep  it.  In  the  central  part  of  the  town 
some  tentative  efforts  had  been  made  to  open  walks, 
but  these  were  apparent  only  as  slight  and  tortuous 


DAVID   HARUM  175 

depressions  in  the  depths  of  snow.  In  the  outskirts 
the  unfortunate  pedestrian  had  to  wade  to  the 
knees. 

As  John  went  behind  the  counter  his  eye  was  at  once 
caught  by  a  small  parcel  lying  on  his  desk,  of  white 
note-paper,  tied  with  a  cotton  string,  which  he  found 
to  be  addressed,  "Mr.  John  Lenox,  Esq.,  Present,"  and 
as  he  took  it  up  it  seemed  heavy  for  its  size. 

Opening  it,  he  found  a  tiny  stocking,  knit  of  white 
wool,  to  which  was  pinned  a  piece  of  paper  with  the 
legend :  "A  Merry  Christmas  from  Aunt  Polly."  Out 
of  the  stocking  fell  a  packet  fastened  with  a  rubber 
strap.  Inside  .were  five  ten-dollar  gold  pieces,  and 
a  slip  of  paper  on  which  was  written  :  "A  Merry 
Christmas  from  Your  Friend  David  Harum."  For 
a  moment  John's  face  burned,  and  there  was  a  curious 
smarting  of  the  eyelids  as  he  held  the  little  stock- 
ing and  its  contents  in  his  hand.  Surely  the  hand  that 
had  written  "Your  Friend"  on  that  scrap  of  paper 
could  not  be  the  hand  of  an  oppressor  of  widows  and 
orphans.  "This,"  said  John  to  himself,  "is  what  he 
meant  when  he  '  supposed  it  wouldn't  take  me  long  to 
find  out  what  was  in  my  stocking.' " 

The  door  opened,  and  a  blast  and  whirl  of  wind  and 
snow  rushed  in,  ushering  the  tall,  bent  form  of  the. 
Widow  Cullom.  The  drive  of  the  wind  was  so  strong 
that  John  vaulted  over  the  low  cash  counter  to  push 
the  door  shut  again.  The  poor  woman  was  white  with 
snow  from  the  front  of  her  old  worsted  hood  to  the 
bottom  of  her  ragged  skirt. 

"You  are  Mrs.  Cullom!"  said  John.     "Wait  a  mo- 


176 


DAVID   HARUM 


ment  till  I  brush  off  the  snow,  and  then  come  to  the 
fire  in  the  back  room.  Mr.  Harum  will  be  in  directly, 
I  expect." 

"Be  I  much  late?"  she  asked.  "I  made  's  much 
haste  's  I  could.  It  don't  appear  to  me  's  if  I  ever  see 
a  blusterin'er  day,  'n'  I  ain't  as  strong  as  I  used  to  be. 
Seemed  as  if  I  never  would  git  here." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  John,  as  he  established  her  before  the 
glowing  grate  of  the  Franklin  stove  in  the  bank  parlor, 

"not  at  all. 
Mr.  Harum 
has  not  come 
in  himself 
yet.  Shall 
you  mind  if 
I  excuse  my- 
self a  mo- 
ment while 
you  make 
yourself  as 
comfortable 
as  possible?" 
She  did 

not  apparently  hear  him. 
She  was  trembling  from  head 
to  foot  with  cold  and  fatigue 
and  nervous  excitement. 
Her  dress  was  soaked  to  the 
knees,  and  as  she  sat  down 
and  put  up  her  feet  to  the 
fire  John  saw  a  bit  of  a  thin  cotton  stocking  and  her 
deplorable  shoes,  almost  in  a  state  of  pulp.  A  snow- 
obliterated  path  led  from  the  back  door  of  the  office  to 


DAVID   HARUM  177 

David's  house,  and  John  snatched  his  hat  and  started  for 
it  on  a  run.  As  he  stamped  off  some  of  the  snow  on  the 
veranda  the  door  was  opened  for  him  by  Mrs.  Bixbee. 

"Lord  sakes  ! "  she  exclaimed.  "What  on  earth  be 
you  cavortin'  round  for  such  a  mornin'  's  this  without 
no  overcoat,  an'  on  a  dead  run  ?  What's  the  matter  1 " 

"Nothing  serious,"  he  answered,  "but  I'm  in  a  great 
hurry.  Old  Mrs.  Cullom  has  walked  up  from  her  house 
to  the  office,  and  she  is  wet  through  and  almost  per- 
ished. I  thought  you'd  send  her  some  dry  shoes  and 
stockings,  and  an  old  shawl  or  blanket  to  keep  her  wet 
skirt  off  her  knees,  arid  a  drop  of  whisky  or  something. 
She's  all  of  a  tremble,  and  I'm  afraid  she  will  have  a 
chill." 

"Certain  !  certain  ! "  said  the  kind  creature  ;  and  she 
bustled  out  of  the  room,  returning  in  a  minute  or  two 
with  an  armful  of  comforts.  "There's  a  pair  of  bed- 
room slips  lined  with  lamb's- wool,  an'  a  pair  of  woolen 
stockin's,  an'  a  blanket  shawl.  This  here  petticut, 
'tain't  what  ye'd  call  bran'-new,  but  it's  warm  an' 
comf'table,  an'  I  don't  believe  she's  got  much  of  any- 
thin'  on  'ceptin'  her  dress ;  an'  I'll  git  ye  the  whisky, 
but  "—here  she  looked  deprecatingly  at  John — "it  ain't 
gen'ally  known  't  we  keep  the  stuff  in  the  house.  I 
don't  know  as  it's  right,  but  though  David  don't  hardly 
ever  touch  it  he  will  have  it  in  the  house." 

"Oh,"  said  John,  laughing,  "you  may  trust  my  dis- 
cretion, and  we'll  swear  Mrs.  Cullom  to  secrecy." 

"Wa'al,  all  right,"  said  Mrs.  Bixbee,  joining  in  the 
laugh  as  she  brought  the  bottle ;  "jest  a  minute  till  I 
make  a  passel  of  the  things  to  keep  the  snow  out. 
There,  now,  I  guess  you're  fixed,  an'  you  kin  hurry 
back  'fore  she  ketches  a  chill." 


178  DAVID   HARUM 

"Thanks  very  much,"  said  John  as  he  started  away. 
"I  have  something  to  say  to  you  besides  ' Merry  Christ- 
mas,' but  I  must  wait  till  another  time." 

When  John  got  back  to  the  office.  David  had  just 
preceded  him. 

"Wa'al,  wa'al,"  he  was  saying,  "but  you  be  in  a 
putty  consid'able  state.  Hullo,  John !  what  you  got 
there  ?  Wa'al,  you  air  the  stuff !  Slips,  blanket  shawl, 
petticut,  stockin's — wa'al,  you  an'  Polly  ben  puttin'  your 
heads  together,  I  guess.  What's  that  ?  Whisky ! 
Wa'al,  scat  my —  !  I  didn't  s'pose  wild  hosses  would 
have  drawed  it  out  o'  Polly  to  let  on  the'  was  any  in  the 
house,  much  less  to  fetch  it  out.  Jes'  the  thing  !  Oh, 
yes,  ye  are,  Mis'  Cullom — jes'  a  mouthful  with  water," 
taking  the  glass  from  John  ;  "jes'  a  spoonful  to  git  your 
blood  a-goin',  an'  then  Mr.  Lenox  an'  me  '11  go  into  the 
front  room  while  you  make  yourself  comf'table." 

"Consarn  it  all ! "  exclaimed  Mr.  Harum,  as  they  stood 
leaning  against  the  teller's  counter,  facing  the  street, 
"I  didn't  cal'late  to  have  Mis'  Cullom  hoof  it  up  here 
the  way  she  done.  When  I  see  what  kind  of  a  day  it 
was  I  went  out  to  the  barn  to  have  the  cutter  hitched 
an'  send  for  her,  an'  I  found  ev'rythin'  topsy-turvy. 
That  dum'd  uneasy  sorril  colt  had  got  cast  in  the  stall, 
an'  I  ben  fussin'  with  him  ever  since.  I  clean  forgot 
all  'bout  Mis'  Cullom  till  jes'  now." 

"Is  the  colt  much  injured?"  John  asked. 

"Wa'al,  he  won't  trot  a  twenty  gait  in  some  time,  I 
reckon,"  replied  David.  "He's  wrenched  his  shoulder 
some,  an'  mebbe  strained  his  inside.  Don't  seem  to 
take  no  int'rist  in  his  feed,  an'  that's  a  bad  sign.  Con- 
sarn a  hoss,  anyhow  !  If  they're  wuth  anythin'  they're 
more  bother  'n  a  teethin'  baby.  Alwus  some  dum 


DAVID   HARUM  179 

thing  ailin'  'em ;  an'  I  took  consid'able  stock  in  that 
colt,  too,"  he  added  regretfully,  "an'  I  could  'a'  got 
putty  near  what  I  was  askin'  fer  him  last  week,  an' 
putty  near  what  he  was  wuth ;  an'  I've  noticed  that 
most  gen'ally  alwus  when  I  let  a  good  offer  go  like  that, 
some  cussed  thing  happens  to  the  hoss.  It  ain't  a  bad 
idee  in  the  hoss  bus'nis,  anyway,  to  be  willin'  to  let  the 
other  feller  make  a  dollar  once  'n  a  while." 

After  that  aphorism  they  waited  in  silence  for  a  few 
minutes,  and  then  David  called  out  over  his  shoulder, 
"How  be  you  gettin'  along,  Mis'  Cullom?" 

"I  guess  I'm  fixed,"  she  answered,  and  David  walked 
slowly  back  into  the  parlor,  leaving  John  in  the  front 
office.  He  was  annoyed  to  realize  that,  in  the  bustle 
over  Mrs.  Cullom  and  what  followed,  he  had  forgotten 
to  acknowledge  the  Christmas  gift,  but,  hoping  that 
Mr.  Harum  had  been  equally  oblivious,  promised  him- 
self to  repair  the  omission  later  on.  He  would  have 
preferred  to  go  out  and  leave  the  two  to  settle  their 
affair  without  witness  or  hearer,  but  his  employer,  who, 
as  he  had  found,  usually  had  a  reason  for  his  actions, 
had  explicitly  requested  him  to  remain,  and  he  had  no 
choice.  He  perched  himself  upon  one  of  the  office 
stools  and  composed  himself  to  await  the  conclusion  of 
the  affair. 


CHAPTER   XIX 

MRS.  CULLOM  was  sitting  at  one  corner  of  the  fire,  and 
David  drew  a  chair  opposite  to  her. 

"  Feelin'  all  right  now  ?  Whisky  hain't  made  ye  liable 
to  no  disorderly  conduct,  has  it?"  he  asked,  with  a 
laugh. 

"Yes,  thank  you,"  was  the  reply,  "the  warm  things 
are  real  comfortin',  'n'  I  guess  I  hain't  had  licker 
enough  to  make  me  want  to  throw  things.  You 
got  a  kind  streak  in  ye,  Dave  Harum,  if  ye  did 
send  me  this  here  note ;  but  I  s'pose  ye  know  yer 
own  bus'nis,"  she  added,  with  a  sigh  of  resignation. 
"I  ben  fearin'  fer  a  good  while  't  I  couldn't  hold 
on  t'  that  prop'ty,  an'  I  don't  know  but  what  you 
might's  well  git  it  as  'Zeke  Swinney,  though  I  ben 
hopin'  'gainst  hope  that  Charley  'd  be  able  to  do  more 
'n  he  has." 

"Let's  see  the  note,"  said  David  curtly.  "H'm, 
humph— '  regret  to  say  that  I  have  been  instructed  by 
Mr.  Harum' — wa'al,  h'm'm,  cal'lated  to  clear  his  own 
skirts  anyway — h'm'm — 'must  be  closed  up  without 
further  delay.' "  (John's  eye  caught  the  little  white 
stocking  which  still  lay  on  his  desk.)  "Wa'al,  yes, 
that's  about  what  I  told  Mr.  Lenox  to  say,  fur's  the 
bus'nis  part's  concerned ;  I  might  'a'  done  my  own  re- 
grettin'  if  I'd  wrote  the  note  myself."  (John  said 
something  to  himself.)  "  'Tain't  the  pleasantest  thing 
in  the  world  fer  ye.  I  allow,  but  then,  you  see,  bus'nis 
is  bus'nis," 


DAVID   HARUM  181 

John  heard  David  clear  his  throat,  and  there  was  a 
hiss  in  the  open  fire.  Mrs.  Cullom  was  silent,  and 
David  resumed : 

"You  see,  Mis'  Cullom,  it's  like  this :  I  ben  thinkin' 
of  this  matter  fer  a  good  while.  That  place  ain't  ben 
no  real  good  to  ye  sence  the  first  year  ye  signed  that 
morgige.  You  hain't  scurcely  more'n  made  ends  meet, 
let  alone  the  int'rist,  an'  it's  ben  simply  a  question  o' 
time,  an'  who'd  git  the  prop'ty  in  the  long  run, 
fer  some  years.  I  reckoned,  same  as  you  did,  that 
Charley  'd  mebbe  come  to  the  front ;  but  he  hain't 
done  it,  an'  'tain't  likely  he  ever  will.  Charley's 
a  likely  'nough  boy  some  ways,  but  he  hain't  got 
much  <git  there'  in  his  make-up — not  more'n  enough 
fer  one,  anyhow,  I  reckon.  That's  about  the  size  on't, 
ain't  it?" 

Mrs.  Cullom  murmured  a  feeble  admission  that  she 
was  "  'fraid  it  was." 

"Wa'al,"  resumed  Mr.  Harum,  "I  see  how  things 
was  goin',  an'  I  see  that,  unless  I  played  euchre,  'Zeke 
Swinney  'd  git 
that  prop'ty, 
an'  whether  I 
wanted  it  my- 
self or  not,  I 
didn't  cal'late 
he  sh'd  git  it,  anyway.  He  put  a  spoke  in  my  wheel 
once,  an'  I  hain't  forgot  it.  But  that  hain't  neither 
here  nor  there.  Wa'al,"  after  a  short  pause,  "you 
know  I  helped  ye  pull  the  thing  along  on  the  chance, 
as  ye  may  say,  that  you  an'  your  son  7d  somehow  make 
a  go  on't." 

"You  ben  very  kind,  so  fur,"  said  the  widow  faintly. 


182  DAVID   HARUM 

"Don't  ye  say  that,  don't  ye  say  that,"  protested 
David.  "  'Twa'n't  no  kindness.  It  was  jes'  bus'nis.  I 
wa'n't  takin'  no  chances,  an'  I  s'pose  I  might  let  the 
thing  run  a  spell  longer  if  I  c'd  see  any  use  in't.  But 
the'  ain't,  an'  so  I  ast  ye  to  come  up  this  moruin'  so't 
we  c'd  settle  the  thing  up  without  no  fuss,  nor  trouble, 
nor  lawyer's  fees,  nor  nothin'.  I've  got  the  papers  all 
drawed,  an'  John — Mr.  Lenox — here  to  take  the  ac- 
knowlidgments.  You  hain't  no  objection  to  windin' 
the  thing  up  this  mornin',  have  ye  ?  " 

"I  s'pose  I'll  have  to  do  whatever  you  say,"  replied 
the  poor  woman  in  a  tone  of  hopeless  discouragement, 
"an'  I  might  as  well  be  killed  to  once  as  to  die  by  inch 
pieces." 

"All  right,  then,"  said  David  cheerfully,  ignoring  her 
lethal  suggestion,  "but  before  we  git  down  to  bus'nis 
an'  signin'  papers,  an'  in  order  to  set  myself  in  as  fair 
a  light 's  I  can  in  the  matter,  I  want  to  tell  ye  a  little 
story." 

"I  hain't  no  objection  's  I  know  of,"  acquiesced  the 
widow  graciously. 

"All  right,"  said  David;  "I  won't  preach  more'n 
about  up  to  the  sixthly.  How'd  you  feel  if  I  was  to 
light  up  a  cigar?  I  hain't  much  of  a  hand  at  a  yarn, 
an'  if  I  git  stuck  I  c'n  puff  a  spell.  Thank  ye.  Wa'al, 
Mis'  Cullom,  you  used  to  know  somethin'  about  my 
folks.  I  was  raised  on  Buxton  Hill.  The'  was  nine  on 
us,  an'  I  was  the  youngest  o'  the  lot.  My  father  farmed 
a  piece  of  about  forty  to  fifty  acres,  an'  had  a  small 
shop  where  he  done,  odd  times,  small  jobs  of  tinkerin' 
fer  the  neighbors  when  the'  was  anythin'  to  do.  My 
mother  was  his  second,  an'  I  was  the  only  child  of  that 
marriage.  He  married  agin  when  I  was  about  two 


'Mis'  Cullom,  I  want  to  tell  ye  a  little  story." 


DAVID   HARUM  183 

year  old,  an'  how  I  ever  got  raised  's  more'n  I  c'n  tell 
ye.  My  sister  Polly  was  'sponsible  more'n  any  one,  I 
guess,  an'  the  only  one  o'  the  whole  lot  that  ever  gin 
me  a  decent  word.  Small  farmin'  ain't  cal'lated  to 
fetch  out  the  best  traits  of  human  nature — an'  keep 
'em  out — an'  it  seems  to  me  sometimes  that  when  the 
old  man  wa'n't  cuffin'  my  ears  he  was  lickin'  me  with  a 
rawhide  or  a  strap.  Fur's  that  was  concerned,  all  his 
boys  used  to  ketch  it  putty  reg'lar  till  they  got  too  big. 
One  on  'em  up  an'  licked  him  one  night,  an'  lit  out 
next  day.  I  s'pose  the  old  man's  disposition  was  sp'iled 
by  what  some  feller  said  farmin'  was,  'workin'  all  day 
an'  doin'  chores  all  night,'  an'  larrupin'  me  an'  all  the 
rest  on  us  was  about  all  the  enjoyment  he  got.  My 
brothers  an'  sisters — 'ceptin'  of  Polly — was  putty  nigh 
as  bad  in  respect  of  cuffs  an'  such  like ;  an'  my  step- 
marm  was,  on  the  hull,  the  wust  of  all.  She  hadn't  no 
childern  of  her  own,  an'  it  appeared  's  if  I  was  jes' 
pizen  to  her.  'Twa'n't  so  much  slappin'  an'  cuffin' 
with  her  as  'twas  tongue.  She  c'd  say  things  that  'd 
jes'  raise  a  blister  like  pizen-ivy.  I  s'pose  I  was  about 
as  ord'nary,  no-account-lookin',  red-headed,  freckled 
little  cuss  as  ye  ever  see,  an'  slinkin'  in  my  manners. 
The  air  of  our  home  circle  wa'n't  cal'lated  to  raise 
heroes  in. 

"I  got  three  four  years'  schoolin',  an'  made  out  to 
read  an'  write  an'  cipher  up  to  long  division  'fore  I  got 
through,  but  after  I  got  to  be  six  year  old,  school  or  no 
school,  I  had  to  work  reg'lar  at  anything  I  had  strength 
fer,  an'  more  too.  Chores  before  school  an'  after  school, 
an'  a  two-mile  walk  to  git  there.  As  fur  's  clo'es  was 
concerned,  any  ol'  thing  that  'd  hang  together  was 
good  enough  fer  me ;  but  by  the  time  the  older  boys 


l&j. 


DAVID   HARUM 


had  outgrowed  their  duds,  an'  they  was  passed  on  to 
me,  the'  wa'n't  much  left  on  'em.  A  pair  of  old  cow- 
hide boots  that  leaked  in  more  snow  an'  water  'n  they 
kept  out,  an'  a  couple  pairs  of  woolen  socks  that  was 
putty  much  all  darns,  was  expected  to  see  me  through 
the  winter,  an'  I  went  barefoot  f 'm  the  time  the  snow 
was  off  the  ground  till  it  flew  agin  in  the  fall.  The' 
wa'n't  but  two  seasons  o'  the  year  with  me — them,  of 
chilblains  an'  stun-bruises." 

The  speaker  paused  and  stared  for  a  moment  into  the 
comfortable  glow  of  the  fire,  and  then,  discovering  to 
his  apparent  surprise  that  his  cigar  had  gone  out, 
lighted  it  from  a  coal  picked  out  with 
the  tongs. 

"Farmin'  's  a  hard  life,"  remarked 
Mrs.  Cullom,  with  an  air  of  being  ex- 
pected to  make  some  contribution  to  the 
conversation. 

"An'  yit,  as  it  seems  to  me  as  I  look 
back  on't,"  David  resumed  pensively, 
"the  wust  on't  was  that  nobody  ever  gin 
me  a  kind  word,  'cept  Polly.  I  s'pose  I 
got  kind  o'  used  to  bein'  cold  an'  tired, 
dressiu'  in  a  snowdrift  where  it  blowed 
into  the  attic,  an'  goin'  out  to  fodder  cat- 
tle 'fore  sun-up,  pickin'  up  stun  in  the 
blazin'  sun,  an'  doin'  all  the  odd  jobs  my 
father  set  me  to,  an'  the  older  ones  shirked  onto  me  ;  that 
was  the  reg'lar  order  o'  things  :  but  I  remember  I  never 
did  git  used  to  never  pleasin'  nobody.  'Course  I  didn't 
expect  nothin'  f 'm  my  stepmarm,  an'  the  only  way  I  ever' 
knowed  I'd  done  my  stent,  fur  's  father  was  concerned, 
was  that  he  didn't  say  nothin'.  But  sometimes  the 


DAVID    HARUM  185 

older  ones  'd  git  settin'  round,  talkin'  an'  laughin', 
havin'  popcorn  an'  apples,  an'  that,  an'  I'd  kind  o'  sidle 
up,  wantin'  to  join  'em,  an'  some  on  'em  'd  say,  'What 
you  doin'  here?  time  you  was  in  bed,'  an'  give  me  a 
shove  or  a  cuff.  Yes,  ma'am,"  looking  up  at  Mrs.  Cul- 
lom,  "the  wust  on't  was  that  I  was  kind  o'  scairt  the 
hull  time.  Once  in  a  while  Polly  'd  give  me  a  mossel 
o'  comfort,  but  Polly  wasn't  but  little  older'n  me,  an' 
bein'  the  youngest  girl,  was  chored  'most  to  death 
herself." 

It  had  stopped  snowing,  and  though  the  wind  still 
came  in  gusty  blasts,  whirling  the  drift  against  the 
windows,  a  wintry  gleam  of  sunshine  came  in  and 
touched  the  widow's  wrinkled  face. 

"  It's  amazin'  how  much  trouble  an'  sorrer  the'  is  in 
the  world,  an'  how  soon  it  begins,"  she  remarked,  mov- 
ing a  little  to  avoid  the  sunlight.  '-'I  hain't  never  ben 
able  to  reconcile  how  many  good  things  the'  be,  an' 
how  little  most  on  us  gits  o'  them.  I  hain't  ben  to 
meetin'  fer  a  long  spell,  'cause  I  hain't  had  no  fit  clo'es, 
but  I  remember  most  of  the  preachm'  I've  set  under 
either  dwelt  on  the  wrath  to  come,  or  else  on  the  Lord's 
doin'  all  things  well,  an'  providin'.  I  hope  I  ain't  no 
wickeder  than  the  gen'ral  run,  but  it's  putty  hard  to 
hev  faith  in  the  Lord's  providin'  when  you  hain't  got 
nothin'  in  the  house  but  corn  meal,  an'  none  too  much 
o'  that." 

"That's  so,  Mis'  Cullom,  that's  so,"  affirmed  David. 
"I  don't  blame  ye  a  mite.  ' Doubts  assail,  an'  oft 
prevail,'  as  the  hymn-book  says,  an'  I  reckon  it's  a  sight 
easier  to  have  faith  on  meat  an'  potatoes  'n  it  is  on 
corn-meal  mush.  Wa'al,  as  I  was  sayin' — I  hope  I  ain't 
tiriu'  ye  with  my  goiu's  011?" 


i86  DAVID   HARUM 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Cullom,  "I'm  engaged  to  hear  ye, 
but  nobody  'd  suppose,  to  see  ye  now,  that  ye  was  such 
a  f  lorn  little  critter  as  you  make  out." 

"It's  jest  as  I'm  tellin'  ye,  an'  more  also,  as  the  Bible 
says,"  returned  David,  and  then,  rather  more  impres- 
sively, as  if  he  were  leading  up  to  his  conclusion,  "it 
come  along  to  a  time  when  I  was  'twixt  thirteen  an' 
fourteen.  The'  was  a  cirkis  billed  to  show  down  here 
in  Homeville,  an'  ev'ry  barn  an'  shed  fer  miles  around 
had  pictures  stuck  onto  'em  of  el'phants,  an'  rhinoce- 
roses, an'  ev'ry  animul  that  went  into  the  ark  ;  an'  girls 
ridin'  bareback  an'  jumpin'  through  hoops,  an'  fellers 
ridin'  bareback  an'  turnin'  summersets,  an'  doiii'  turn- 
overs on  swings ;  an'  clowns  gettin'  hoss-whipped,  an' 
ev'ry  kind  of  a  thing  that  could  be  pictered  out ;  an' 
how  the'  was  to  be  a  grand  percession  at  ten  o'clock, 
'ith  golden  chariots,  an'  scripteral  allegories,  an'  the 
hull  bus'nis  ;  an'  the  gran'  performance  at  two  o'clock  — 
admission  twenty-five  cents,  children  under  twelve,  et 
cetery  an'  so  forth.  Wa'al,  I  hadn't  no  more  idee  o' 
goin'  to  that  cirkis  'n  I  had  o'  flyin'  to  the  moon ;  but 
the  night  before  the  show  somethin'  waked  me  'bout 
twelve  o'clock.  I  don't  know  how  'twas.  I'd  ben 
helpin'  mend  fence  all  day,  an'  gen'ally  I  never  knowed 
nothin'  after  my  head  struck  the  bed  till  mornin'. 
But  that  night,  anyhow,  somethin'  waked  me,  an'  I 
went  an'  looked  out  the  wiudo',  an'  there  was  the  hull 
thing  goin'  by  the  house.  The'  was  more  or  less  moon, 
an'  I  see  the  el'phant,  an'  the  big  wagins— the  drivers 
kind  o'  noddin'  over  the  dash-boards— an'  the  chariots 
with  canvas  covers — I  don't  know  how  many  of  'em — 
an'  the  cages  of  the  tigers  an'  lions,  an'  all.  Wa'al,  I 
got  up  the  next  mornin'  at  sun-up  an'  done  my  chores  ; 


DAVID   HARUM 


187 


an'  after  breakfust  I  set  off  fer  the  ten-acre  lot  where  I 
was  mendin'  fence.  The  ten-acre  was  the  farthest  off 
of  any,  Homeville  way,  an'  I  had  my  dinner  in  a  tin 
pail  so't  I  needn't  lose  no  time  goin'  home  at  noon,  an', 
as  luck  would  have  it,  the'  wa'n't  nobody  with  me  that 
mornin'.  Wa'al,  I  got  down  to  the  lot  an'  set  to  work  ; 
but  somehow  I  couldn't  git  that  show  out  o'  my  head 
nohow.  As  I  said,  I  hatln't  no  more  notion  of  goin'  to 
that  cirkis  'n  I  had  of  kingdom  come.  I'd  never  had 
two  shillin'  of  my  own  in  my  hull  life.  But  the  more 
I  thought  on't  the  uneasier  I  got.  Somethin'  seemed 
pullin'  an'  haulin'  at  me,  an'  finely  I  gin  in.  I  allowed 
I'd  see  that  percession  anyway,  if  it  took  a  leg,  an' 
inebbe  I  c'd  git  back  'ithout  nobody  missin'  me.  'T  any 
rate,  I'd  take  the  chances  of  a  lickin'  jest  once  , , 
—fer  that's  what  it  meant— an'  I  up  an'  put 
fer  the  village  lickity-cut.  I  done  them 
four  mile  lively,  I  c'n  tell  ye,  an'  the  stun- 
bruises  never  hurt  me  once. 

"When  I  got  down  to  the  village  it 
seemed  to  me  as  if  the  hull  population  of 
Freelaud  County  was  there.  I'd  never 
seen  so  many  folks  together  in  my 
life,  an'  fer  a  spell  it  seemed  to  me 
as  if  ev'rybody  was  a-lookin' 
at  me  an'  sayin',  'That's  old 
Harum's  boy  Dave,  playin'  hook- 
ey,' an'  I  sneaked  round  dreadin' 
somebody'd  give  me  away ;  but 
I  finely  found  that  nobody  wa'n't 
pay  in'  any  attention  to  me ;  they  was  there  to  see  the 
show,  an'  one  red-headed  boy  more  or  less  wa'n't  no 
pertic'ler  account.  Wa'al,  putty  soon  the  percession 


i88  DAVID   HARUM 

hove  in  sight,  an'  the'  was  a  reg'lar  stampede  among 
the  boys,  an'  when  it  got  by,  I  run  an'  ketched  up  with 
it  agin,  an'  walked  alongside  the  el'phant,  tin  pail  an' 
all,  till  they  fetched  up  inside  the  tent.  Then  I  went 
off  to  one  side— it  must  'a'  ben  about  'leven  or  half 
past — an'  eat  my  dinner  (I  had  a  devourin'  appetite), 
an'  thought  I'd  jes'  walk  round  a  spell,  an'  then  light 
out  fer  home.  But  the'  was  so  many  things  to  see  an' 
hear — all  the  side-show  pictures  of  Fat  Women,  an' 
Livin'  Skelitons,  an'  Wild  Women  of  Madygasker, 
an'  Wild  Men  of  Borneo,  an'  snakes  wiudin'  round 
women's  necks ;  hand-orgins,  fellers  that  played  the 
'cordion  an'  mouth-pipes  an'  drum  an'  cymbals  all  to 
once,  an'  such  like — that  I  fergot  all  about  the  time, 
an'  the  ten-acre  lot,  an'  the  stun  fence ;  an'  fust  I 
knowed,  the  folks  was  makin'  fer  the  ticket-wagin,  an' 
the  band  begun  to  play  inside  the  tent.  Be  I  taxin' 
your  patience  over  the  limit?"  said  David,  breaking 
off  in  his  story  and  addressing  Mrs.  Cullom  more 
directly. 

"No,  I  guess  not,"  she  replied ;  "I  was  jes'  thinkin' 
of  a  circus  I  went  to  once,"  she  added,  with  an  audible 
sigh. 

"Wa'al,"  said  David,  taking  a  last  farewell  of  the 
end  of  his  cigar,  which  he  threw  into  the  grate,  "mebbe 
what's  comin'  '11  int'rist  ye  more'n  the  rest  on't  has. 
I  was  standin'  gawpin'  round,  list'nin'  to  the  band  an' 
watchin'  the  folks  git  their  tickets,  when  all  of  a  suddin 
I  felt  a  twitch  at  my  hair — it  had  a  way  of  workin'  out 
of  the  holes  in  my  old  chip  straw  hat— an'  somebody 
says  to  me,  l Wa'al,  sonny,  what  you  thinkin'  of?'  he 
says.  I  looked  up,  an'  who  do  you  s'pose  it  was?  It 
was  Billy  P.  Cullom !  I  knowed  who  he  was,  fer  I'd 


DAVID  HARUM 


,89 


seen  Mm  before,  but  of  course  lie  didn't  know  me. 
Yes,  ma'am,  it  was  Billy  P.,  an'  wa'n't  he  rigged  out 
to  kill  ! " 

The  speaker  paused  and  looked  into  the  fire,  smiling. 
The  woman  started  forward,  facing  him,  and  clasping 
her  hands,  cried,  "My 
husband!  What  >d 
he  have  on?  " 

"Wa'al,"  said  David 
slowly  and  reminis- 
ceutly,  "near  's  I  c'n 
remember,  he  had  on 
a  blue  broadcloth 
claw-hammer  coat 
with  flat  gilt  buttons, 
an'  a  double-breasted 
plaid  velvet  vest, 
an'  pearl-gray  pants, 
strapped  down  over 
his  boots,  which  was 
of  shiny  leather,  an' 
a  high  pointed  collar 
an'  blue  stock 
with  a  pin  in 
it  (I  remember 
wonderin'  if  it 

c'd  be  real  gold),  an'  a  yeller-white  plug  beaver  hat." 
At  the  description  of  each  article  of  attire  Mrs.  Cul- 
lom  nodded  her  head,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  David's 
face,  and  as  he  concluded  she  broke  out  breathlessly : 
"Oh,  yes  !  Oh,  yes  !  David,  he  wore  them  very  same 
clo'es,  an'  he  took  me  to  that  very  same  show  that  very 
same  night ! "  There  was  in  her  face  a  look  almost  of 


190  DAVID   HARUM 

awe,  as  it  a  sight  of  her  long-buried  past  youth  had 
been  shown  to  her  from  a  coffin. 

Neither  spoke  for  a  moment  or  two,  and  it  was  the 
widow  who  broke  the  silence.  As  David  had  conjec- 
tured, she  was  interested  at  last,  and  sat  leaning  for- 
ward with  her  hands  clasped  in  her  lap. 

"Well,"  she  exclaimed,  "ain't  ye  goin'  on?  What 
did  he  say  to  ye  ?  " 

"Cert'nly,  cert'nly,"  responded  David ;  "I'll  tell  ye 
near  's  I  c'n  remember,  an'  I  c'n  remember  putty  near. 
As  I  told  ye,  I  felt  a  twitch  at  my  hair,  an'  he  said, 
1  What  be  you  thinkin'  about,  sonny  ! '  I  looked  up  at 
him,  an'  looked  away  quick.  1 1  dunno,'  I  says,  diggin' 
my  big  toe  into  the  dust ;  an'  then,  I  dunno  how  I  got 
the  spunk  to,  for  I  was  shyer  'n  a  rat,  '  Guess  I  was 
thinkin'  'bout  mendin'  that  fence  up  in  the  ten-acre 
lot 's  much  's  anythin','  I  says. 

"'Ain't  you  goin'  to  the  cirkis!'  he  says. 

"'I  hain't  got  no  money  to  go  to  cirkises,'  I  says, 
rubbin'  the  dusty  toes  o'  one  foot  over  t'other,  'nor 
nothin'  else/  I  says. 

"'Wa'al,'  he  says,  'why  don't  you  crawl  under  the 
canvas  ? ' 

"That  kind  o'  riled  me,  shy  's  I  was.  'I  don't  crawl 
under  no  canvases,'  I  says.  'If  I  can't  go  in  same  's 
other  folks,  I'll  stay  out,'  I  says,  lookin'  square  at  him 
fer  the  fust  time.  He  wa'n't  exac'ly  smilin',  but  the' 
was  a  look  in  his  eyes  that  was  the  next  thing  to 
it." 

"Lordy  me!"  sighed  Mrs.  Cullom,  as  if  to  herself. 
"How  well  I  can  remember  that  look — jest  as  if  he  was 
laughin'  at  ye,  an'  wa'n't  laughin'  at  ye,  an'  his  arm 
around  your  neck  ! " 


DAVID   HARUM  191 

David  nodded  in  reminiscent  sympathy,  and  rubbed 
his  bald  poll  with  the  back  of  his  hand. 

"Wa'al?"  interjected  the  widow. 

"Wa'al,"  said  David,  resuming,  "he  says  to  me? 
1  Would  you  like  to  go  to  the  cirkis  ? '  an'  with  that  it 
occurred  to  me  that  I  did  want  to  go  to  that  cirkis 
more'n  any  thin'  I  ever  wanted  to  before— nor  since,  it 
seems  to  me.  But  I  tellTye  the  truth,  I  was  so  far  f'm 
expectin'  to  go  't  I  really  hadn't  knowed  I  wanted  to. 
I  looked  at  him,  an'  then  down  agin,  an'  began  ten- 
derin'  up  a  stun-bruise  on  one  heel  agin  the  other  in- 
step, an'  all  I  says  was,  bein'  so  dum'd  shy,  'I  dunno,' 
I  says.  But  I  guess  he  seen  in  my  face  what  my  feelin's 
was,  fer  he  kind  o'  laughed,  an'  pulled  out  half  a  dol- 
lar an'  says :  '  D'you  think  you  could  git  a  couple  o' 
tickits  in  that  crowd  !  If  you  kin,  I  think  I'll  go  my- 
self, but  I  don't  want  to  git  my  boots  all  dust,'  he  says. 
I  allowed  I  c'd  try  ;  an'  I  guess  them  bare  feet  o'  mine 
tore  up  the  dust  some  gettin'  over  to  the  wagin. 
Wa'al,  I  had  another  scare  gettin'  the  tickits,  fer  fear 
some  one  that  knowed  me  'd  see  me  with  a  half  a  dollar, 
an'  think  I  must  'a'  stole  the  money.  But  I  got  'em, 
an'  carried  'em  back  to  him,  an'  he  took  'em  an'  put 
'em  in  his  vest  pocket,  an'  handed  me  a  ten-cent  piece, 
an'  says,  'Mebbe  you'll  want  somethin'  in  the  way  of 
refreshments  fer  yourself,  an'  mebbe  the  el'phant,'  he 
says,  an'  walked  off  toward  the  tent ;  an'  I  stood  stun- 
still,  lookin'  after  him.  He  got  off  about  a  rod  or  so 
an'  stopped  an'  looked  back.  '  Ain't  you  comin'?'  he 
says. 

"'Be  I  goin'  with  youV  I  says. 

"'Why  not?'  he  says,  °nless  you'd  ruther  go  alone,' 
an'  he  put  his  finger  an'  thumb  into  his  vest  pocket. 


192  DAVID   HARUM 

Wa'al,  ma'am,  I  looked  at  him  a  minute,  with  his  shiny 
hat  an'  boots,  an'  fine  clo'es,  an'  gold  pin,  an'  thought 
of  my  ragged  ol'  shirt,  an'  cotton  pants,  an'  ol'  chip  hat 
with  the  brim  'most  gone,  an'  my  tin  pail  an'  all.  <I 
ain't  fit  to,'  I  says,  ready  to  cry ;  an* — wa'al,  he  jes' 
laughed  an'  says,  'Nonsense,'  he  says,  'come  along.  A 
man  needn't  be  ashamed  of  his  workin'  clo'es,'  he  says  ; 
an'  I'm  dum'd  if  he  didn't  take  holt  of  my  hand,  an' 
in  we  went  that  way  together." 

"How  like  him  that  was  ! "  said  the  widow  softly. 

"Yes,  ma'am,  yes,  ma'am,  I  reckon  it  was,"  said 
David,  nodding. 

"Wa'al,"  he  went  on  after  a  little  pause,  "I  was  ready 
to  sink  into  the  ground  with  shyniss  at  fust,  but  that 
wore  off  some  after  a  little,  an'  we  two  seen  the  hull 
show,  I  tell  ye.  We  walked  round  the  cages,  an'  we 
fed  the  el'phant— that  is,  he  bought  the  stuff  an'  I  fed 
him.  I  'member — he,  he,  he! — 't  he  says,  'Mind  you 
git  the  right  end,'  he  says,  an'  then  we  got  a  couple  o' 
seats,  an'  the  doin's  begun." 


CHAPTER   XX 

THE  widow  was  looking  at  David  with  shining  eyes 
and  devouring  his  words.  All  the  years  of  trouble  and 
sorrow  and  privation  were  wiped  out,  and  she  was  back 
in  the  days  of  her  girlhootl.  Ah,  yes  !  how  well  she  re- 
membered him  as  he  looked  that  very  day— so  hand- 
some, so  splendidly  dressed,  so  debonair ;  and  how 
proud  she  had  been  to  sit  by  his  side  that  night,  ob- 
served and  envied  of  all  the  village  girls. 

"I  ain't  goin'  to  go  over  the  hull  show,"  proceeded 
David,  "well 's  I  remember  it.  The'  didn't  nothin'  git 
away  from  me  that  afternoon,  an'  once  I  come  near  to 
stickin'  a  piece  o'  gingerbread  into  my  ear  'stid  o'  my 
mouth.  I  had  my  ten-cent  piece  that  Billy  P.  give  me, 
but  he  wouldn't  let  me  buy  nothin' ;  an'  when  the  gin- 
gerbread man  come  along  he  says,  'Air  ye  hungry, 
Dave?'  (I'd  told  him  my  name.)  'Air  ye  hungry?' 
Wa'al,  I  was  a  growin'  boy,  an'  I  was  hungry  putty 
much  all  the  time.  He  bought  two  big  squares  an'  gin 
me  one,  an'  when  I'd  swallered  it,  he  says,  'Guess  you 
better  tackle  this  one  too,'  he  says;  'I've  dined.'  I 
didn't  exac'ly  know  what  'dined'  meant,  but — he,  he, 
he,  he ! — I  tackled  it,"  and  David  smacked  his  lips  in 
memory. 

"Wa'al,"  he  went  on,  "we  done  the  hull  programmy  : 
gingerbread,  lemonade— pink  lemonade,  an'  he  took 
some  o'  that— popcorn,  peanuts,  pep'mint  candy,  cin'- 
mun  candy— scat  my —  !  an'  he  payin'  fer  ev'rythin' ; 
I  thought  he  was  jes'  made  o'  money  !  An'  I  remem- 
ber how  we  talked  about  all  the  doin's  j  the  ridin',  an' 


194 


DAVID   HARUM 


jumping  an'  summersettin',  an'  all— fer  he'd  got  all  the 
shyniss  out  of  me  fer  the  time— an'  once  I  looked  up  at 
him,  an'  he  looked  down  at  me  with  that  curious  look 
in  his  eyes  an'  put  his  hand  on  my  shoulder.  Wa'al, 
now,  I  tell  ye,  I  had  a  queer,  crinkly  feelin'  go  up  an' 

down   my  back,  an'  I 
like  to  up  an'  cried." 
"Dave,"      said      the 
widow,  "I  kin  see  you 
two  as  if  you  was  settin' 
there  front  of  me.     He 
was    alwus    like    that. 
Oh,     my !      Oh,     my ! 
David,"  she  added  sol- 
emnly, while  two  tears 
rolled  slowly  down  her 
wrinkled  face,"  we  lived 
together,    husban'    an' 
wife,    fer    seven    year, 
an'  he   never  give  me 
a  cross  word." 
"I  don't  doubt  it  a  mos- 
sel,"    said    David    simply, 
leaning   over   and    poking. 


the  fire,  which  operation 
kept  his  face  out  of  her 
sight  and  was  prolonged 
rather  unduly.  Finally  he  straightened  up,  and  blow- 
ing his  nose  as  if  it  were  a  trumpet,  said  : 

"Wa'al,  the  cirkis  finely  come  to  an  end,  an'  the 
crowd  hustled  to  git  out 's  if  they  was  afraid  the  tent  'd 
come  down  on  'em.  I  got  kind  o'  mixed  up  in  'em,  an' 


DAVID   HARUM  195 

somebody  tried  to  git  my  tin  pail,  or  I  thought  he  did, 
an'  the  upshot  was  that  I  lost  sight  o'  Billy  P.,  an' 
couldn't  make  out  to  ketch  a  glimpse  of  him  nowhere. 
An'  then  I  kind  o'  come  down  to  earth,  kerchug !  It 
was  five  o'clock,  an'  I  had  better'n  four  mile  to  walk, 
mostly  up  hill,  an'  if  I  knowed  anything  'bout  the  old 
man— an'  I  thought  I  did— I  had  the  all-firedist  lickin' 
ahead  of  me  't  I'd  ever  got,  an'  that  was  sayin'  a  good 
deal.  But,  boy  's  I  was,  I  had  grit  enough  to  allow 
'twas  wuth  it,  an'  off  I  put." 

"Did  he  lick  ye  much?"  inquired  Mrs.  Cullom 
anxiously. 

"Wa'al,"  replied  David,  "he  done  his  best.  He  was 
layin'  fer  me  when  I  struck  the  front  gate— I  knowed 
it  wa'n't  no  use  to  try  the  back  door — an'  he  took  me 
by  the  ear— 'most  pulled  it  off— an'  marched  me  off  to 
the  barn  shed  without  a  word.  I  never  see  him  so  mad. 
Seemed  like  he  couldn't  speak  fer  a  while,  but  finely 
he  says, '  Where  you  ben  all  day  ? ' 

"'Down  t'  the  village,'  I  says. 

"'What  you  ben  up  to  down  there?'  he  says. 

"'Went  to  the  cirkis,'  I  says,  thinkin'  I  might 's  well 
make  a  clean  breast  on't. 

"' Where  'd  you  git  the  money? '  he  says. 

"'Mr.  Cullom  took  me,'  I  says. 

"'You  lie  !'  he  says.  'You  stole  the  money  some- 
wheres,  an'  I'll  trounce  it  out  of  ye,  if  I  kill  ye  ! '  he  says. 

"Wa'al,"  said  David,  twisting  his  shoulders  in  recol- 
lection, "I  won't  harrer  up  your  feelin's.  'S  I  told  you, 
he  done  his  best.  I  was  willin'  to  quit  long  'fore  he 
was.  Fact  was,  he  overdone  it  a  little,  an'  he  had  to 
throw  water  in  my  face  'fore  he  got  through  ;  an'  he 


196  DAVID   HARUM 

done  that  as  thorough  as  the  other  thing.  I  was  some- 
thin'  like  a  chickin  jest  out  o'  the  cistern.  I  crawled 
off  to  bed  the  best  I  could,  but  I  didn't  lay  on  my  back 
fer  a  good  spell,  I  c'n  tell  ye." 

"You  poor  little  critter ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Cullom 
sympathetically.  "You  poor  little  critter  ! " 

"'Twas  more'n  wuth  it,  Mis'  Cullom,"  said  David 
emphatically.  "I'd  had  the  most  enj'y'ble  day,  I 
might  say  the  only  enj'y'ble  day,  't  I'd  ever  had  in  my 
hull  life,  an'  I  hain't  never  fergot  it.  I  got  over  the 
lickin'  in  course  of  time,  but  I've  ben  enj'yin'  that 
cirkis  fer  forty  year.  The'  wa'n't  but  one  thing  to 
hender,  an'  that's  this  :  that  I  hain't  never  ben  able  to 
remember — an'  to  this  day  I  lay  awake  nights  tryin' 
to — that  I  said  l  Thank  ye '  to  Billy  P.,  an'  I  never  seen 
him  after  that  day." 

"How's  that?"  asked  Mrs.  Cullom. 

"Wa'al,"  was  the  reply,  "that  day  was  the  turnin'- 
point  with  me.  The  next  night  I  lit  out  with  what 
duds  I  c'd  git  together,  an'  as  much  grub  's  I  could  pack 
in  that  tin  pail ;  an'  the  next  time  I  see  the  old  house 
on  Buxton  Hill  the'  hadn't  ben  no  Harums  in  it  fer 
years." 

Here  David  rose  from  his  chair,  yawned  and  stretched 
himself,  and  stood  with  his  back  to  the  fire.  The  widow 
looked  up  anxiously  into  his  face.  •  "Is  that  all!"  she 
asked  after  a  while. 

"Wa'al,  it  is  an'  it  ain't.  I've  got  through  yarnin' 
about  Dave  Harum,  at  any  rate,  an'  mebbe  we'd  better 
have  a  little  confab  on  your  matters,  seein'  't  I've  got 
you  'way  up  here  such  a  mornin'  's  this.  I  gen'ally  do 
bus'nis  fust  an'  talkin'  afterward,"  he  added,  "but  I 
kind  o'  got  to  goin'  an'  kept  on  this  time." 


DAVID   HARUM 


197 


He  put  his  hand  into  the  breast  pocket  of  his  coat 
and  took  out  three  papers,  which  he  shuffled  in  review 
as  if  to  verify  their  identity,  and  then  held  them  in  one 
hand,  tapping  them  softly  upon  the  palm  of  the  other, 
as  if  at  a  loss  how  to  begin.  The  widow  sat  with  her 
eyes  fastened  upon  the  papers, 
trembling  with  nervous^  appre- 
hension.  Presently  he 
broke  the  silence. 

"About     this 
here  morgige  o' 
yourn,"  he  said, 
"I  sent  ye  word 
that  I  wanted  to 
close  the  matter 
up,  an'  seem'  't 
you're  here 
an'  come  fer 
that  pur- 
pose,      I 
guess  we'd 
better 

make  a  job  on't.     The'  ain't  no  time 
like  the  present,  as  the   say  in'  is." 

"I  s'pose  it'll  hev  to  be  as  you  say,"  said  the  widow 
in  a  shaking  voice. 

"Mis'  Cullom,"  said  David  solemnly,  "you  know,  an' 
I  know,  that  I've  got  the  repitation  of  bein'  a  hard, 
graspin',  schemin'  man.  Mebbe  I  be.  Mebbe  I've  ben 
hard  done  by  all  my  hull  life,  an'  have  had  to  be  ;  an' 
mebbe,  now 't  I've  got  ahead  some,  it's  got  to  be  second 
nature,  an'  I  can't  seem  to  help  it.  i  Bus'nis  is  bus'nis ' 
ain't  part  of  the  golden  rule,  I  allow,  but  the  way  it 


198  DAVID   HARUM 

gen' ally  runs,  fur  's  I've  found  out,  is,  'Do  unto  the 
other  feller  the  way  he'd  like  to  do  unto  you,  an'  do  it 
fust.'  But  if  you  want  to  keep  this  thing  a-runnin'  as 
it's  goin'  on  now  fer  a  spell  longer,  say  one  year,  or  two, 
or  even  three,  you  may,  only  I've  got  somethin'  to  say 
to  ye  'fore  ye  elect." 

"Wa'al,"  said  the  poor  woman,  "I  expect  it  'd  only 
be  pilin'  up  wrath  agin  the  day  o'  wrath.  I  can't  pay 
the  int'rist  now  without  starvin',  an'  I  hain't  got  no 
one  to  bid  in  the  prop'ty  fer  me  if  it  was  to  be  sold." 

"Mis'  Cullom,"  said  David,  "I  said  I'd  got  somethin' 
more  to  tell  ye,  an'  if,  when  I  git  through,  you  don't 
think  I've  treated  you  right,  includin'  this  mornin's 
confab,  I  hope  you'll  fergive  me.  It's  this,  an'  I'm  the 
only  person  livin'  that's  knowin'  to  it,  an'  in  fact  I  may 
say  that  I'm  the  only  person  that  ever  was  really 
kuowin'  to  it.  It  was  before  you  was  married,  an'  I'm 
sure  he  never  told  ye,  fer  I  don't  doubt  he  fergot  all 
about  it,  but  your  husband,  Billy  P.  Cullom  that  was, 
made  a  small  investment  once  on  a  time — yes,  ma'am, 
he  did — an'  in  his  kind  of  careless  way  it  jes'  slipped  his 
mind.  The  amount  of  cap'tal  he  put  in  wa'n't  large, 
but  the  rate  of  int'rist  was  uncommon  high.  Now,  he 
never  drawed  no  dividends  on't,  an'  they've  ben  'cumu- 
latin'  fer  forty  year,  more  or  less,  at  compound  int'rist." 

The  widow  started  forward  as  if  to  rise  from  her  seat. 
David  put  his  hand  out  gently  and  said,  "Jest  a  minute, 
Mis'  Cullom,  jest  a  minute,  till  I  git  through.  Part  o' 
that  cap'tal,"  he  resumed,  "consistin'  of  a  quarter  an' 
some  odd  cents,  was  invested  in  the  cirkis  bus'nis,  an' 
the  rest  on't — the  cap'tal,  an'  all  the  cash  cap'tal  that 
I  started  in  bus'nis  with— was  the  ten  cents  your  hus- 
band give  me  that  day,  an'  here,"  said  David,  striking 


DAVID   HARUM  199 

the  papers  in  his  left  hand  with  the  back  of  his  right, 
"here  is  the  dividends!  This  here  second  morgige,  not 
bein'  on  record,  may  jest  as  well  go  onto  the  fire — it's 
gettin'  low— an'  here's  a  satisfaction  piece,  which  I'm 
goin'  to  execute  now,  that'll  clear  the  thousan'  dollar 
one.  Come  in  here,  John,"  he  called  out. 

The  widow  stared  at  David  for  a  moment  speechless, 
but  as  the  significance  of  his  words  dawned  upon  her  the 
blood  flushed  darkly  in  her  face.  She  sprang  to  her 
feet  and,  throwing  up  her  arms,  cried  out :  "My  Lord  ! 
My  Lord!  Dave!  Dave  Harum  !  Is  it  true?— tell 
me  it's  true  !  You  ain't  foolin'  me,  air  ye,  Dave  ?  You 
wouldn't  fool  a  poor  old  woman  that  never  done  ye  no 
harm,  nor  said  a  mean  word  agin  ye,  would  ye  !  Is  it 
true,  an'  is  my  place  clear  ?  an'  I  don't  owe  nobody  any- 
thin'— I  mean,  no  money?  Tell  it  agin!  Oh,  tell  it 
agin  !  Oh,  Dave  !  it's  too  good  to  be  true  !  Oh,  oh  ! 
Oh,  my !  an'  here  I  be  cryin'  like  a  great  baby,  an',  an'  " 
—fumbling  in  her  pocket— "I  do  believe  I  hain't  got 
no  hank'chif.  Oh,  thank  ye,"  to  John ;  "I'll  do  it  up 
an'  send  it  back  to-morrer.  Oh,  what  made  ye  do  it, 
Dave?" 

"Set  right  down  an'  take  it  easy,  Mis'  Cullom,"  said 
Dave  soothingly,  putting  his  hands  on  her  shoulders 
and  gently  pushing  her  back  into  her  chair.  "Set  right 
down  an'  take  it  easy.  Yes,"  to  John,  "I  acknowledge 
that  I  signed  that." 

He  turned  to  the  widow,  who  sat  wiping  her  eyes 
with  John's  handkerchief. 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  he  said,  "it's  as  true  as  anythin'  kin 
be.  I  wouldn't  no  more  fool  ye — ye  know  I  wouldn't, 
don't  ye? — than  I'd  jerk  a  hoss,"  he  asseverated. 
".Your  place  is  clear  now,  an'  by  this  time  to-morro' 


200  DAVID   HARUM 

the'  won't  be  the  scratch  of  a  pen  agin  it.  I'll  send 
the  satisfaction  over  fer  record  fust  thing  in  the 
mornin'." 

"But,  Dave,"  protested  the  widow,  "I  s'pose  ye  know 
what  you're  doin'  ?  " 

"Yes,"  he  interposed,  "I  cal'late  I  do,  putty  near. 
You  ast  me  why  I  done  it,  an'  I'll  tell  ye  if  ye  want  to 
know.  I'm  payin'  off  an  old  score,  an'  gettin'  off  cheap, 
too.  That's  what  I'm  doiii' !  I  thought  I'd  hinted  up 
to  it  putty  plain,  seein'  't  I've  talked  till  my  jaws  ache  ; 
but  I'll  sum  it  up  to  ye  if  you  like." 

He  stood  with  his  feet  aggressively  wide  apart,  one 
hand  in  his  trousers  pocket,  and  holding  in  the  other 
the  "morgige,"  which  he  waved  from  time  to  time  in 
emphasis. 

"You  c'n  estimate,  I  reckon,"  he  began,  "what  kind 
of  a  bringin'  up  I  had,  an'  what  a  poor,  mis'able,  God- 
fersaken,  scairt- to -death  little  forlorn  critter  I  was — put 
upon,  an'  snubbed,  an' jawed  at  till  I'd  come  to  believe 
myself — what  was  rubbed  into  me  the  hull  time — that  I 
was  the  most  all-round  no-account  animul  that  was 
ever  made  out  o'  dust,  an'  wa'n't  ever  likely  to  be  no 
diff'rent.  Lookin'  back,  it  seems  to  me  that — exceptin' 
of  Polly — I  never  had  a  kind  word  said  to  me,  nor  a 
day's  fun.  Your  husband,  Billy  P.  Cullom,  was  the  fust 
man  that  ever  treated  me  human  up  to  that  time.  He 
give  me  the  only  enj'y'ble  time  't  I'd  ever  had,  an'  I 
don't  know  't  anythin'  's  ever  equaled  it  since.  He 
spent  money  on  me,  an'  he  give  me  money  to  spend — 
that  had  never  had  a  cent  to  call  my  own ;  an\  Mis' 
Cullom,  he  took  me  by  the  hand  an'  he  talked  to  me, 
an'  he  gin  me  the  fust  notion  't  I'd  ever  had  that 
mebbe  I  wa'n't  only  the  scum  o'  the  earth,  as  I'd  ben 


DAVID   HARUM  201 

teached  to  believe.  I  told  ye  that  that  day  was  the 
turnin' -point  of  my  life.  Wa'al,  it  wa'n't  the  lickin'  I 
got,  though  that  had  somethin'  to  do  with  it,  but  I'd 
never  have  had  the  spunk  to  run  away  's  I  did  if  it 
hadn't  ben  fer  the  heartenin'  Billy  P.  gin  me,  an' 
never  knowed  it — an'  never  knowed  it,"  he  repeated 
mournfully.  "I  alwus  allowed  to  pay  some  o'  that 
debt  back  to  him,  but  seein'  's  I  can't  do  that,  Mis' 
Cullom,  I'm  glad  an'  thankful  to  pay  it  to  his 
widdo'." 

"Mebbe  he  knows,  Dave,"  said  Mrs.  Cullom  softly. 

"Mebbe  he  does,"  assented  David  in  a  low  voice. 

Neither  spoke  for  a  time,  and  then  the  widow  said : 
"David,  I  can't  thank  ye  's  I  ought  ter — I  don't  know 
how— but  I'll  pray  for  ye  night  an'  mornin'  's  long  's  I 
got  breath.  An',  Dave,"  she  added  humbly,  "I  want 
to  take  back  what  I  said  about  the  Lord's  providin'." 

She  sat  a  moment,  lost  in  her  thoughts,  and  then  ex- 
claimed, "Oh,  it  don't  seem  's  if  I  c'd  wait  to  write  to 
Charley ! " 

"I've  wrote  to  Charley,"  said  David,  "an'  told  him 
to  sell  out  there  an'  come  home,  an'  to  draw  on  me  fer 
any  balance  he  needed  to  move  him.  I've  got  some- 
thin'  in  my  eye  that'll  be  easier  an'  better  payin' 
than  fightin'  grasshoppers  an'  drought  in  Kansas." 

"Dave  Harum!"  cried  the  widow,  rising  to  her 
feet,  "you  ought  to  'a'  ben  a  king  ! " 

"Wa'al,"  said  David,  with  a  grin,  "I  don't  know 
much  about  the  kingin'  bus'nis,  but  I  guess  a  cloth 
cap  'n'  a  hoss- whip's  more  'n  my  line  than  a  crown  an' 
scepter.  An'  now,"  he  added,  "'s  we've  got  through 
'th  our  bus'nis,  s'pose  you  step  over  to  the  house  an' 
see  Polly.  She's  expectin'  ye  to  dinner.  Oh,  yes," 


202 


DAVID   HARUM 


replying  to  the  look  of  deprecation  in  her  face  as  she 
viewed  her  shabby  frock,  "you  an'  Polly  c'n  prink  up 
some  if  you  want  to,  but  we  can't  take  'No'  fer  an 
answer  Chris'mus  day,  clo'es  or  no  clo'es." 

"I'd  really  like  ter,"  said  Mrs.  Cullom. 

"All  right,  then,"  said  David  cheerfully.  "The  path 
is  swep'  by  this  time,  I  guess,  an'  I'll  see  ye  later.  Oh, 


by  the  way,"  he  exclaimed,  "the's  somethin'  I  fergot. 
I  want  to  make  you  a  proposition — ruther  an  ouusual 
one,  but  seein'  ev'rythin'  is  as  't  is,  perhaps  you'll  con- 
sider it." 

"Dave,"  declared  the  widow,  "if  I  could,  an'  you  ast 
for  it,  I'd  give  ye  anythin'  on  the  face  o'  this  mortal 
globe!" 

"  Wa'al,"  said  David,  nodding  and  smiling,  "I  thought 
that  mebbe,  long  's  you  got  the  int'rist  of  that  invest- 


DAVID   HARUM  203 

ment  we  ben  talkin'  about,  you'd  let  me  keep  what's 
left  of  the  princ'pal.  Would  ye  like  to  see  it  1 " 

Mrs.  Cullom  looked  at  him  with  a  puzzled  expression 
without  replying. 

David  took  from  his  pocket  a  large  wallet,  secured  by 
a  strap,  and,  opening  it,  extracted  something  enveloped 
in  much-faded  brown  paper.  Unfolding  this,  he  dis- 
played upon  his  broad,  fat  palm  an  old  silver  dime 
black  with  age. 

"There's  the  cap'tal,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER   XXI 

JOHN  walked  to  the  front  door  with  Mrs.  Cullom, 
but  she  declined  with  such  evident  sincerity  his  offer  to 
carry  her  bundle  to  the  house  that  he  let  her  out  of  the 
office  and  returned  to  the  back  room.  David  was  sit- 
ting before  the  fire,  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  with  his 
hands  thrust  deep  in  his  trousers  pockets.  He  looked 
up  as  John  entered,  and  said,  "Draw  up  a  chair." 

John  brought  a  chair  and  stood  by  the  side  of  it 
while  he  said,  "I  want  to  thank  you  for  the  Christmas 
remembrance,  which  pleased  and  touched  me  very 
deeply  ;  and,"  he  added  diffidently,  "I  want  to  say  how 
mortified  I  am — in  fact,  I  want  to  apologize  for — ' 

"Regrettin"?"  interrupted  David,  with  a  motion  of 
his  hand  toward  the  chair  and  a  smile  of  great  amuse- 
ment. "Sho,  sho  !  Se'  down,  se'  down.  I'm  glad  you 
found  somethin'  in  your  stockin',  if  it  pleased  ye ;  an' 
as  fur  's  that  regret  o'  yourn  was  concerned — wa'al— 
wa'al,  I  liked  ye  all  the  better  for't,  I  did  fer  a  fact. 
He,  he,  he  !  Appearances  was  ruther  agin  me,  wasn't 
they,  the  way  I  told  it." 

"Nevertheless,"  said  John,  seating  himself,  "I  ought 
not  to  have — that  is  to  say,  I  ought  to  have  known—" 

"How  could  ye,"  David  broke  in,  "when  I  as  good 
as  told  ye  I  was  cal'latin'  to  rob  the  old  lady  ?  He,  he, 
he,  he !  Scat  my —  !  Your  face  was  a  picter  when  I 
told  ye  to  write  that  note,  though  I  reckon  you  didn't 
know  I  noticed  it." 

John  laughed  and  said,  "You  have  been  very  gener- 
ous all  through,  Mr.  Harum." 


DAVID   HARUM  205 

"Nothin'  to  brag  on,"  lie  replied,  "nothin'  to  brag 
on.  Fur  's  Mis'  Cullom's  matter  was  concerned,  't  was 
as  I  said,  jes'  pay  in'  off  an  old  score  ;  an'  as  fur  's  your 
stockin',  it's  really  putty  much  the  same.  I'll  allow 
you've  earned  it,  if  it'll  set  any  easier  on  your 
stomech." 

"I  can't  say  that  I  have  been  overworked,"  said 
John,  with  a  slight  laugh. 

"Mebbe  not,"  rejoined  David,  "but  you  hain't  ben 
overpaid  neither,  an'  I  want  ye  to  be  satisfied.  Fact 
is,"  he  continued,  "my  gettin'  you  up  here  was  putty 
consid'able  of  an  experiment ;  but  I  ben  watchin'  ye 
putty  close,  an'  I'm  more'n  satisfied.  Mebbe  Timson 
c'd  beat  ye  at  figurin'  an'  countin'  money  when  you 
fust  come,  an'  knowed  more  about  the  pertic'ler  p'ints 
of  the  office,  but  outside  of  that  he  was  the  biggist 
dumb-head  I  ever  see,  an'  you  know  how  he  lef  things. 
He  hadn't  no  tack,  fer  one  thing.  Outside  of  summin' 
up  figures  an'  countin'  money,  he  had  a  faculty  fer  get- 
tin'  things  t'other  end  to  that  beat  all.  I'd  tell  him  a 
thing,  an'  explain  it  to  him  two  three  times  over,  an' 
he'd  say,  'Yes,  yes,'  an',  scat  my —  !  when  it  came  to 
carryin'  on't  out,  he  hadn't  sensed  it  a  mite— jes'  got  it 
which  end  t'other.  An'  talk  !  Wa'al,  I  think  it  must 
'a'  ben  a  kind  of  disease  with  him.  He  really  didn't 
mean  no  harm,  mebbe,  but  he  couldn't  no  more  help 
lettin'  out  anythin'  he  knowed,  or  thought  he  knowed, 
than  a  settin'  hen  c'n  help  settin'.  He  kep'  me  on 
tenter-hooks  the  hull  endurin'  time." 

"I  should  say  he  was  honest  enough,  was  he  not?" 
said  John. 

"Oh,  yes,"  replied  David,  with  a  touch  of  scorn,  "he 
was  honest  enough,  fur 's  money  matters  was  concerned  ; 


206  DAVID   HARUM 

but  he  hadn't  no  tack,  nor  no  sense,  an'  many  a  time 
he  done  more  mischief  with  his  gibble-gabble  than  if 
he'd  took  fifty  dollars  out  an'  out.  Fact  is,"  said 
David,  "the  kind  of  honesty  that  won't  actually  steal 's 
a  kind  of  fool  honesty  that's  common  enough  ;  but  the 
kind  that  keeps  a  feller's  mouth  shut  when  he  hadn't 
ought  to  talk  's  about  the  scurcest  thing  goin'.  I'll  jes' 
tell  ye,  fer  example,  the  last  mess  he  made.  You  know 
Purse,  that  keeps  the  gen'ral  store?  Wa'al,  he  come  to 
me  some  months  ago,  on  the  quiet,  an'  said  that  he 
wanted  to  borro'  five  hunderd.  He  didn't  want  to  git 
no  indorser,  but  he'd  show  me  his  books  an'  give  me  a 
statement  an'  a  chattel  morgige  fer  six  months.  He 
didn't  want  nobody  to  know  't  he  was  anyway  pushed 
fer  money,  because  he  wanted  to  git  some  extensions, 
an'  so  on.  I  made  up  my  mind  it  was  all  right,  an'  I 
done  it.  Wa'al,  about  a  month  or  so  after,  he  come  to 
me  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  as  ye  might  say,  an'  says,  '  I 
got  somethin'  I  want  to  show  ye,'  an'  handed  out  a 
letter  from  the  house  in  New  York  he  had  some  of  his 
biggist  dealin's  with,  tellin'  him  that  they  regretted  " 
— here  David  gave  John  a  nudge — "that  they  couldn't 
give  him  the  extensions  he  ast  for,  an'  that  his  paper 
must  be  paid  as  it  fell  due— some  twelve  hunderd 
dollars.  'Somebody's  leaked,'  he  says,  'an'  they've 
heard  of  that  morgige,  an'  I'm  in  a  putty  scrape,'  he 
says. 

"'H'm'ni,'  I  says,  'what  makes  ye  think  so?' 
"'Can't  be  nothin'  else,'  he  says;  'I've  dealt  with 
them  people  fer  years  an'  never  ast  fer  nothin'  but 
what  I  got  it,  an'  now  to  have  'em  round  up  on  me  like 
this,  it  can't  be  nothin'  but  what  they've  got  wind  o' 
that  chattel  morgige,'  he  says. 


DAVID   HARUM 


207 


"'H'm'm,'  I  says.  'Any  o'  their  people  ben  up  here 
lately?'  I  says. 

'" That's  jest  it,'  he  says.  'One  o'  their  travelin' 
men  was  up  here  last  week,  an'  he  come  in  in  the  after- 
noon, as  chipper  as  you  please,  wantin'  to  sell  me  a  bill 
o'  goods,  an'  I  put  him  o|f, 
sayin'  that  I  had  a  putty  big 
stock,  an'  so  on,  an'  he  said 
he'd  see  me  agin  in  the 
mornin' — you  know  that 
sort  of  talk,'  he  says. 

"'Wa'al,'  I  says,  'did  he 
come  in?' 

"'No,'  says  Purse,  'he 
didn't.  I  never  set  eyes  on 
him  agin,  an'  more'n  that,' 
he  says,  'he  took  the  fust 
train  in  the  mornin' ;  an' 
now,'  he  says,  '  I  expect  I'll 
have  ev'ry  last  man  I  owe 
anythin'  to  buzzin'  round  my  ears.' 

'"Wa'al,'  I  says,  'I  guess  I  see 
about  how  the  land  lays,  an'  I 
reckon  you  ain't  fur  out  about  the 
morgige  bein'  at  the  bottom  on't,  an'  the'  ain't  no  way 
it  c'd  'a'  leaked  out  'ceptin'  through  that  dum'd  chuckle- 
head  of  a  Timson.  But  this  is  the  way  it  looks  to  me — 
you  hain't  heard  nothin'  in  the  village,  have  ye?'  I  says. 

"'No,'  he  says,    'not  yitj  he  says. 

'"Wa'al,  ye  won't,  I  don't  believe,'  I  says  ;  'an'  as  fur 
as  that  drummer  is  concerned,  you  c'n  bet,'  I  says, 
'that  he  didn't  nor  won't  let  on  to  nobody  but  his  own 
folks— not  till  his  bus'nis  is  squared  up ;  an'  more'n 


208  DAVID   HARUM 

that/  I  says,  'seein'  that  your  trouble's  ben  made  ye 
by  one  o'  my  help,  I  don't  see  but  what  I'll  have  to  see 
ye  through/  I  says.  'You  jes'  give  me  the  address  of 
the  New  York  parties,  an'  tell  me  what  you  want  done, 
an'  I  reckon  I  c'n  fix  the  thing  so't  they  won't  bother 
ye.  I  don't  believe,'  I  says,  'that  anybody  else  knows 
any  thin'  yet,  an'  I'll  shut  up  Timson's  yawp  so's  it'll 
stay  shut.' " 

"How  did  the  matter  come  out?"  asked  John,  "and 
what  did  Purse  say?" 

"Oh,"  replied  David,  "Purse  went  off  head  up  an' 
tail  up.  He  said  he  was  everlastin'ly  obliged  to  me, 
an' — he,  he,  he! — he  said  'twas  more'n  he  expected. 
You  see,  I  charged  him  what  I  thought  was  right  on 
the  'rig'nal  deal,  an'  he  squimmidged  some,  an'  I  reckon 
he  allowed  to  be  putty  well  bled  if  I  took  holt  agin  ; 
but  I  done  as  I  agreed  on  the  extension  bus'nis,  an' 
I'm  on  his  paper  fer  twelve  hunderd  fer  nothin',  jest 
because  that  nikum-noddy  of  a  Timson  let  that  drum- 
mer bamboozle  him  into  talkin'.  I  found  out  the  hull 
thing,  an'  the  very  day  I  wrote  to  the  New  York  fellers 
fer  Purse,  I  wrote  to  Gen'ral  Wolsey  to  find  me  some- 
body to  take  Timson's  place.  I  allowed  I'd  ruther 
have  somebody  that  didn't  know  nobody  than  such  a 
clackin'  ole  he-hen  as  Chet." 

"I  should  have  said  that  it  was  rather  a  hazardous 
thing  to  do,"  said  John,  "to  put  a  total  stranger  like 
me  into  what  is  rather  a  confidential  position,  as  well 
as  a  responsible  one." 

"Wa'al,"  said  David,  "in  the  fust  place,  I  knew  that 
the  gen'ral  wouldn't  recommend  no  dead-beat  nor  no 
skin,  an'  I  allowed  that  if  the  raw  material  was  O.  K. 
I  could  break  it  in,  an'  if  it  wa'n't  I  should  find  it  out 


DAVID    HARUM  209 

putty  quick.  Like  a  young  boss,"  he  remarked,  "if 
he's  sound  an'  kind,  an'  got  gumption,  I'd  sooner  break 
him  in  myself  'n  not — fur  's  my  use  goes  ;  an'  if  I  can't 
nobody  can,  an'  I  get  rid  on  him.  You  understand  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  John,  with  a  smile. 

"Wa'al,"  continued  David,  "I  liked  your  letter,  an' 
when  you  come  I  liked  your  looks.  Of  course  I  couldn't 
tell  jest  how  you'd  take  holt,  nor  if  you  an'  me  'd  hitch. 
An'  then  agin,  I  didn't  know  whether  you  could  stan' 
it  here  after  livin'  in  a  city  all  your  life.  I  watched  ye 
putty  close — closter  'n  you  knowed  of,  I  guess.  I  seen 
right  off  that  you  was  goin'  to  fill  your  collar  fur  's  the 
work  was  concerned,  an'  though  you  didn't  know  no- 
body much,  an'  couldn't  have  no  amusement  to  speak 
on,  you  didn't  mope  nor  sulk  ;  an'  what's  more,  though 
I  know  I  advised  ye  to  stay  there  fer  a  spell  longer 
when  you  spoke  about  boardin'  somewhere  else,  I 
know  what  the  Eagle  tavern  is  in  winter — summer 
too,  fer  that  matter,  though  it's  a  little  better  then — an' 
I  allowed  that  air  test  'd  be  final.  He,  he,  he  !  Putty 
rough,  ain't  it?" 

"It  is,  rather,"  said  John,  laughing.  "I'm  afraid  my 
endurance  is  pretty  well  at  an  end.  Elright's  wife  is 
ill,  and  the  fact  is  that  since  day  before  yesterday  I 
have  been  living  on  what  I  could  buy  at  the  grocery — 
crackers,  cheese,  salt  fish,  canned  goods,  et  cetera." 

"Scat  my-!"  cried  David.  "Wa'al,  wa'al ! 
That's  too  dum'd  bad !  Why  on  earth — why,  you 
must  be  hungry !  Wa'al,  you  won't  have  to  eat  no  salt 
herrin'  to-day,  because  Polly  'n'  I  are  expectin'  ye  to 
dinner." 

Two  or  three  times  during  the  conversation  David 
had  gone  to  the  window  overlooking  his  lawn  and 


210  DAVID   HARUM 

looked  out  with  a  general  air  of  observing  the  weather, 
and  at  this  point  he  did  so  again,  coming  back  to  his 
seat  with  a  look  of  satisfaction  for  which  there  was,  to 
John,  no  obvious  reason.  He  sat  for  a  moment  with- 
out speaking,  and  then,  looking  at  his  watch,  said: 
"Wa'al,  dinner's  at  one  o'clock,  an'  Polly's  a  great  one 
fer  bein'  on  time.  Guess  I'll  go  out  an'  have  another 
look  at  that  pesky  colt.  You  better  go  over  to  the 
house  'bout  quarter  to  one,  an'  you  c'n  make  your  t'ilet 
over  there.  I'm  'fraid  if  you  go  over  to  the  Eagle  it'll 
spile  your  appetite.  She'd  think  it  might,  anyway." 

So  David  departed  to  see  the  colt,  and  John  got  out 
some  of  the  books  and  busied  himself  with  them  until 
the  time  to  present  himself  at  David's  house. 


CHAPTEE  XXII 

"WHY,  Mis'  Cullom,  I'm  real  glad  to  see  ye  !  Come 
right  in,"  said  Mrs.  Bixbee  as  she  drew  the  widow  into 
the  "wing  settin'-room"  and  proceeded  to  relieve  her 
of  her  wraps  and  her  bundle.  "Set  right  here  by  the 
fire  while  I  take  these  things  of  yourn  into  the  kitchen 
to  dry  'em  out.  I'll  be  right  back."  And  she  bustled 
out  of  the  room.  When  she  came  back  Mrs.  Cullom 
was  sitting  with  her  hands  in  her  lap,  and  there  was  in 
her  eyes  an  expression  of  smiling  peace  that  was  good 
to  see. 

Mrs.  Bixbee  drew  up  a  chair  and,  seating  herself, 
said :  "Wa'al,  I  don't  know  when  I've  seen  ye  to  git  a 
chance  to  speak  to  ye,  an'  I  was  real  pleased  when 
David  said  you  was  goin'  to  be  here  to  dinner.  An' 
my  !  how  well  you're  lookin'— more  like  Cynthy  Sweet- 
land  than  I've  seen  ye  fer  I  don't  know  when;  an' 
yet,"  she  added,  looking  curiously  at  her  guest,  "you 
'pear  somehow  as  if  you'd  ben  cryin'." 

"You're  real  kind,  I'm  sure,"  responded  Mrs.  Cullom, 
replying  to  the  other's  welcome  and  remarks  seriatim ; 
"I  guess,  though,  I  don't  look  much  like  Cynthy  Sweet- 
land,  if  I  do  feel  twenty  years  younger  'n  I  did  awhile 
ago ;  an'  I  have  ben  cryin',  I  allow,  but  not  fer  sorro'. 
Polly  Harum,"  she  exclaimed,  giving  the  other  her 
maiden  name,  "your  brother  Dave  comes  putty  nigh 
to  bein'  an  angel ! " 

"Wa'al,"  replied  Mrs.  Bixbee,  with  a  twinkle,  "I 
reckon  Dave  might  hev  to  be  fixed  up  some  afore  he 
come  out  in  that  pertic'ler  shape  ;  but,"  she  added  ini- 
15 


212  DAVID   HARUM 

pressively,  "es  fur  as  bein'  a  man  goes,  he's  'bout  's 
good  's  they  make  'em.  I  know  folks  thinks  he's  a 
hard  bargainer,  an'  close-fisted,  an'  some  on  'em  that 
ain't  fit  to  lick  up  his  tracks  says  more'n  that.  He's 
got  his  own  ways,  I'll  allow  ;  but  down  at  bottom,  an' 
all  through,  I  know  the'  ain't  no  better  man  livin'. 
No,  ma'am,  the'  ain't ;  an'  what  he's  ben  to  me,  Cynthy 
Cullom,  nobody  knows  but  me — an' — an' — mebbe  the 
Lord— though  I  hev  seen  the  time,"  she  said  tenta- 
tively, "when  it  seemed  to  me  't  I  knowed  more  about 
my  affairs  'n  He  did "  ;  and  she  looked  doubtfully  at 
her  companion,  who  had  been  following  her  with 
affirmative  and  sympathetic  nods,  and  now  drew  her 
chair  a  little  closer,  and  said  softly  :  "Yes,  yes,  I  know. 
I  ben  putty  doubtful  an'  rebellious  myself  a  good  many 
times,  but  seems  now  as  if  He  had  had  me  in  His  mercy 
all  the  time."  Here  Aunt  Polly's  sense  of  humor  as- 
serted itself.  "What's  Dave  ben  up  to  now1?"  she 
asked. 

And  then  the  widow  told  her  story,  with  tears  and 
smiles,  and  the  keen  enjoyment  which  we  all  have  in 
talking  about  ourselves  to  a  sympathetic  listener  like 
Aunt  Polly,  whose  interjections  pointed  and  illuminated 
the  narrative.  When  it  was  finished  she  leaned  for- 
ward and  kissed  Mrs.  Cullom  on  the  cheek. 

"I  can't  tell  ye  how  glad  I  be  for  ye,"  she  said  ;  "but 
if  I'd  known  that  David  held  that  morgige,  I  could  hev 
told  ye  ye  needn't  hev  worried  yourself  a  mite.  He 
wouldn't  never  have  taken  your  prop'ty,  more'n  he'd 
rob  a  hen-roost.  But  he  done  the  thing  his  own  way- 
kind  o'  fetched  it  round  fer  a  Merry  Chris'mus,  didn't 
he?  Curious,"  she  said  reflectively,  after  a  momentary 
pause,  "how  he  lays  up  things  about  his  childhood." 


DAVID    HARUM  213 

And  then,  with  a  searching  look  at  the  Widow  Cullom, 
"You  didn't  let  on,  an'  I  didn't  ask  ye,  but  of  course 
you've  heard  the  things  that  some  folks  says  of  him, 
an'  natchally  they  got  some  holt  on  your  mind.  There's 
that  story  about  'Lish,  over  to  Whitcom — you  heard 
some  thin'  about  that,  didn't  ye?" 

"Yes,"  admitted  the  widow,  "I  heard  somethin'  of 
it,  I  s'pose." 

"Wa'al,"  said  Mrs.  Bixbee,  "you  never  heard  the 
hull  story,  ner  anybody  else  really,  but  I'm  goin'  to 
tell  it  to  ye." 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Cullom  assentingly. 

Mrs.  Bixbee  sat  up  straight  in  her  chair,  with  her 
hands  on  her  knees  and  an  air  of  one  who  would  see 
justice  done. 

"'Lish  Harum,"  she  began,  "wa'n't  only  half-brother 
to  Dave.  He  was  hull-brother  to  me,  though  ;  but  not- 
withstandin'  that,  I  will  say  that  a  meaner  boy,  a 
meaner  growin'  man,  an'  a  meaner  man  never  walked 
the  earth.  He  wa'n't  satisfied  to  git  the  best  piece 
an'  the  biggist  piece — he  hated  to  hev  any  one  else  git 
anythin'  at  all.  I  don't  believe  he  ever  laughed  in  his 
life,  except  over  some  kind  o'  suff'rin' — man  or  beast — 
an'  what  'd  tickle  him  the  most  was  to  be  the  means 
on't.  He  took  pertic'ler  delight  in  abusin'  an'  tor- 
meritin'  Dave,  an'  the  poor  little  critter  was  jest  as 
'fraid  as  death  of  him,  an'  good  reason.  Father  was 
awful  hard,  but  he  didn't  go  out  of  his  way ;  but 
'Lish  never  let  no  chance  slip.  Wa'al,  I  ain't  goin' 
to  give  you  the  hull  fam'ly  hist'ry,  an'  I've  got  to  go 
into  the  kitchen  fer  a  while  'fore  dinner,  but  what  I 
started  out  fer  's  this:  'Lish  finely  settled  over  to 
Whitcom." 


214 


DAVID   HARUM 


"Did  he  ever  git  married?"  interrupted  Mrs. 
Cullom. 

"Oh,  yes,"  replied  Mrs.  Bixbee,  "he  got  married 
when  he  was  past  forty.  It's  curious,"  she  remarked, 
in  passing,  "but  it  don't  seem  as  if  the'  was  ever  yit 


a  man  so  mean 
woman  was  fool      -* 
an'  she  was  a 
woman,  too, 


but  he  c'd  find  some 
enough  to  marry  him ; 
putty  decent  sort  of  a 
f'm  all  accounts,  an' 
good-lookin'.  Wa'al,  she 
stood  him  six  or  seven 
year,  an'  then  she  run 
off." 

"With  another  man?" 
queried  the  widow  in  an 
awed  voice. 

Aunt  Polly  nodded  assent 
with  compressed  lips.  "Yes'm," 
she  went  on,  "she  left  him  an' 
went  out  West  somewhere,  an' 
that  was  the  last  of  her ;  an' 
when  her  two  boys  got  old 
enough  to  look  after  them- 
selves a  little,  they  quit  him 
too,  an'  they  wa'n't  noway 
growed  up,  neither.  Wa'al, 
the  long  an'  the  short  on't  was 
that  'Lish  got  goin'  downhill 
ev'ry  way,  health  an'  all,  till  he  hadn't  nothin'  left  but  his 
disposition,  an'  fairly  got  onter  the  town.  The'  wa'n't 
nothin'  for  it  but  to  send  him  to  the  county  house, 
onless  somebody  'd  s'port  him.  Wa'al,  the  committee 
knew  Dave  was  his  brother,  an'  one  on  'em  come  to  see 


DAVID   HARUM  215 

him  to  see  if  he'd  come  forwud  an'  help  out ;  an'  he 
seen  Dave  right  here  in  this  room,  an'  Dave  made  me 
stay  an'  hear  the  hull  thing.  Man's  name  was  Smith,  I 
remember,  a  peaked  little  man,  with  long  chin  whiskers 
that  he  kep'  clawin'  at  with  his  fingers.  Dave  let  him 
tell  his  story,  an'  he  didn't  say  nothin'  fer  a  minute  or 
two,  an'  then  he  says, '  What  made  ye  come  to  me  ? '  he 
says.  '  Did  he  send  ye  ? ' 

"'Wa'al,'  says  Smith,  'when  it  was  clear  that  he 
couldn't  do  nothin',  we  ast  him  if  the'  wa'n't  nobody 
could  put  up  fer  him,  an'  he  said  you  was  his  brother, 
an'  well  off,  an'  hadn't  ought  to  let  him  go  t'  the  poor- 
house.' 

"'He  said  that,  did  he?'  says  Dave. 

"'Amountin'  to  that,'  says  Smith. 

"'Wa'al,'  says  Dave,  'it's  a  good  many  years  sence  I 
see  'Lish,  an'  mebbe  you  know  him  better  'n  I  do. 
You  known  him  some  time,  eh  1 ' 

"'Quite  a  number  o'  years,'  says  Smith. 

"'What  sort  of  a  feller  was  he,'  says  Dave,  'when  he 
was  somebody  ?  Putty  good  feller  ?  good  citizen  ?  good 
neighber?  lib'ral1?  kind  to  his  fam'ly?  ev'rybody  like 
him  ?  geii'ally  pop'lar,  an'  all  that  ? ' 

"'Wa'al,'  says  Smith,  wigglin'  in  his  chair  an'  pullin' 
out  his  whiskers  three  four  hairs  to  a  time,  '  I  guess  he 
come  some  short  of  all  that.' 

"'E-umph  ! '  says  Dave,  'I  guess  he  did  !  Now,  hon- 
est,' he  says,  'is  the'  a  man,  woman,  or  child  in  Whit- 
corn,  that  knows  'Lish  Harum,  that's  got  a  good  word 
fer  him,  or  ever  knowed  of  his  doin'  or  sayin'  anythin' 
that  hadn't  got  a  mean  side  to  it  someway?  Didn't  he 
drive  his  wife  off,  out  an'  out!  an'  didn't  his  two  boys 
hev  to  quit  him  soon  's  they  could  travel  ?  An1,1  says 


2l6 


DAVID   HARUM 


Dave,  'if  any  one  was  to  ask  you  to  figure  out  a  pat- 
tern of  the  meanist  human  skunk  you  was  capable  of 
thinkin'  of,  wouldn't  it — honest,  now ! '  Dave  says, 
'honest,  now — wouldn't  it  be  's  near  like  'Lish  Harum 
as  one  buck-shot's  like  another?' " 


"My!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Cullom.  "What  did  Mr. 
Smith  say  to  that?" 

"Wa'al,"  replied  Mrs.  Bixbee,  "he  didn't  say  nothin' 
at  fust,  not  in  so  many  words.  He  sot  fer  a  minute, 
clawin'  away  at  his  whiskers — an'  he'd  got  both  hands 
into  'em  by  that  time— an'  then  he  made  a  move  as 
if  he  gin  the  hull  thing  up  an'  was  goin'.  Dave 
set  lookin'  at  him,  an'  then  he  says,  'You  ain't  goin', 
air  ye?' 


DAVID   HARUM  217 

"'Wa'al,'  says  Smith,  'feelin'  's  you  do,  I  guess  my 
arrant  here  ain't  goin'  V  amount  to  nothin',  an'  I 
may  's  well.' 

"'No,  you  set  still  a  minute/  says  Dave.  'If  you'll 
answer  my  question  honest  an'  square,  I've  got  sunthin' 
more  to  say  to  ye.  Come,  now,'  he  says. 

"'Wa'al,'  says  Smith,  with  a  kind  of  give-it-up  sort 
of  a  grin,  'I  guess  you  sized  him  up  about  right.  I 
didn't  come  to  see  you  on  'Lish  Harum's  account.  I 
come  fer  the  town  of  Whitcom.'  An'  then  he  spunked 
up  some  an'  says,  'I  don't  give  a  darn,'  he  says,  'what 
'comes  of  'Lish,  an'  I  don't  know  nobody  as  does,  fur  's 
he's  person'ly  concerned ;  but  he's  got  to  be  a  town 
charge  less'n  you  take  'm  off  our  hands.' 

"Dave  turned  to  me  an'  says,  jest  as  if  he  meant  it, 
'How  'd  you  like  to  have  him  here,  Polly? ' 

"'Dave  Harurn!'  I  says,  'what  be  you  thinkin'  of, 
seein'  what  he  is,  an'  alwus  was,  an'  how  he  alwus 
treated  you?  Lord  sakes  ! '  I  says,  'you  ain't  thinkin' 
of  it ! ' 

"'Not  much,'  he  says,  with  an  ugly  kind  of  a  smile, 
such  as  I  never  see  in  his  face  before, '  not  much  !  Not 
under  this  roof,  or  any  roof  of  mine,  if  it  wa'n't  more'n 
my  cow-stable — an','  he  says,  turnin'  to  Smith,  'this  is 
what  I  want  to  say  to  you :  You've  done  all  right.  I 
hain't  no  fault  to  find  with  you.  But  I  want  you  to  go 
back  an'  say  to  'Lish  Harum  that  you've  seen  me,  an' 
that  I  told  you  that  not  one  cent  o'  my  money  nor  one 
mossel  o'  my  food  would  ever  go  to  keep  him  alive  one 
minute  of  time ;  that  if  I  had  an  empty  hog-pen  I 
wouldn't  let  him  sleep  in't  overnight,  much  less  to 
bunk  in  with  a  decent  hog.  You  tell  him  that  I  said 
the  poorhouse  was  his  proper  dwellin',  barrin'  the  jail, 


218  DAVID   HARUM 

an'  that  it  'd  have  to  be  a  dum'd  sight  poorer  house  'n 
I  ever  heard  of  not  to  be  a  thousan'  times  too  good  fer 
him.' " 

"My  ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Cullom  again.  "I  can't  really 
'magine  it  of  Dave." 

"Wa'al,"  replied  Mrs.  Bixbee,  "I  told  ye  how  set  he 
is  on  his  young  days,  an'  nobody  knows  how  cruel 
mean  'Lish  used  to  be  to  him ;  but  I  never  see  it  come 
out  of  him  so  ugly  before,  though  I  didn't  blame  him  a 
mite.  But  I  hain't  told  ye  the  upshot.  ( Now,'  he  says 
to  Smith,  who  set  with  his  mouth  gappin'  open,  'you 
understand  how  I  feel  about  the  feller,  an'  I've  got 
good  reason  fer  it.  I  want  you  to  promise  me  that 
you'll  say  to  him,  word  fer  word,  jes'  what  I've  said  to 
you  about  him,  an'  I'll  do  this  :  You  folks  send  him  to 
the  poorhouse,  an'  let  him  git  jes'  what  the  rest  on  'em 
gits — no  more  an'  no  less — as  long  's  he  lives.  "When 
he  dies  you  git  him  the  tightest  coffin  you  kin  buy,  to 
keep  him  f  m  spilin'  the  earth  as  long  as  may  be,  an' 
then  you  send  me  the  hull  bill.  But  this  has  got  to  be 
between  you  an'  me  only.  You  c'n  tell  the  rest  of  the 
committee  what  you  like,  but  if  you  ever  tell  a  livin' 
soul  about  this  here  understanding  an'  I  find  it  out,  I'll 
never  pay  one  cent,  an'  you'll  be  to  blame.  I'm  willin', 
on  them  terms,  to  stan'  between  the  town  of  Whitcom 
an'  harm  ;  but  fer  'Lish  Harum  not  one  sumarkee  !  Is 
it  a  barg'in1? '  Dave  says. 

"'Yes,  sir,'  says  Smith,  puttin'  out  his  hand.  <An'  I 
guess,'  he  says,  'f'm  all  't  I  c'n  gather,  thet  you're  doin' 
all  't  we  could  expect,  an'  more  too ' ;  an'  off  he  put." 

"How  'd  it  come  out?"  asked  Mrs.  Cullom. 

"'Lish  lived  about  two  year,"  replied  Aunt  Polly, 
"an'  Dave  done  as  he  agreed ;  but  even  then,  when  he 


DAVID   HARUM  219 

come  to  settle  up,  lie  told  Smith  he  didn't  want  no 
more  said  about  it  'n  could  be  helped." 

"Wa'al,"  said  Mrs.  Cullom,  "it  seems  to  me  as  if 
David  did  take  care  on  him,  after  all,  fur  's  spendin' 
money  was  concerned." 

"That's  the  way  it  looks  to  me,"  said  Mrs.  Bixbee, 
"but  David  likes  to  think  t'other.  He  meant  to  be 
awful  mean,  an'  he  was— as  mean  as  he  could— but  the 
fact  is,  he  didn't  reelly  know  how.  My  sakes  !  Cynthy  " 
(looking at  the  clock),  "I'll  hev  to  excuse  myself  fer  a 
spell.  Ef  you  want  to  do  any  fixin'  up  'fore  dinner, 
jes'  step  into  my  bedroom.  I've  laid  some  things  out 
on  the  bed,  if  you  should  happen  to  want  any  of  'em," 
and  she  hurried  out  of  the  room. 


CHAPTEK  XXIII 

DAVID'S  house  stood  about  a  hundred  feet  back  from 
the  street,  facing  the  east.  The  main  body  of  the 
house  was  of  two  stories  (through  which  ran  a  deep 
bay  in  front),  with  Mansard  roof.  On  the  south  were 
two  stories  of  the  "wing,"  in  which  were  the  "settin'- 
room,"  Aunt  Polly's  room,  and,  above,  David's  quarters. 

Ten  minutes  or  so  before  one  o'clock  John  rang  the 
bell  at  the  front  door. 

"Sairy's  busy,"  said  Mrs.  Bixbee  apologetically  as  she 
let  him  in,  "an'  so  I  come  to  the  door  myself." 

"Thank  you  very  much,"  said  John.  "Mr.  Harum 
told  me  to  come  over  a  little  before  one,  but  perhaps  I 
ought  to  have  waited  a  few  minutes  longer." 

"No,  it's  all  right,"  she  replied,  "for  mebbe  you'd 
like  to  wash  an'  fix  up  'fore  dinner,  so  I'll  jes'  show  ye 
where  to,"  and  she  led  the  way  up-stairs  and  into  the 
"front  parlor  bedroom." 

"There,"  she  said,  "make  yourself  comf  table,  an' 
dinner'll  be  ready  in  about  ten  minutes." 

For  a  moment  John  mentally  rubbed  his  eyes.  Then 
he  turned  and  caught  both  of  Mrs.  Bixbee's  hands  and 
looked  at  her,  speechless.  When  he  found  words  he 
said  :  "I  don't  know  what  to  say,  nor  how  to  thank  you 
properly.  I  don't  believe  you  know  how  kind  this  is." 

"Don't  say  nothin'  about  it,"  she  protested,  but  with 
a  look  of  great  satisfaction.  "I  done  it  jest  t'  relieve 
my  mind,  because  ever  seuce  you  fus'  come  I  ben  wor- 
ryin'  over  your  bein'  at  that  nasty  tavern  "  ;  and  she 
made  a  motion  to  go. 


DAVID   HARUM  221 

"You  and  your  brother,"  said  John  earnestly,  still 
holding  her  hands,  "have  made  me  a  gladder  and  hap- 
pier man  this  Christmas  day  than  I  have  been  for  a 
very  long  time." 

"I'm  glad  on't,"  she  said  heartily,  "an'  I  hope  you'll 
be  comf  table  an'  contented  here.  I  must  go  now  an' 
help  Sairy  dish  up.  Come  down  to  the  settin'-room 
when  you're  ready,"  and  she  gave  his  hands  a  little 
squeeze. 

"Aunt  Po — ,  I  beg  pardon,  Mrs.  Bixbee,"  said  John, 
moved  by  a  sudden  impulse,  "do  you  think  you  could 
find  it  in  your  heart  to  complete  my  happiness  by  giv- 
ing me  a  kiss?  It's  Christmas,  you  know,"  he  added 
smilingly. 

Aunt  Polly  colored  to  the  roots  of  her  hair. 
"Wa'al,"  she  said,  with  a  little  laugh,  "seein'  't  I'm 
old  enough  to  be  your  mother,  I  guess  'twon't  hurt 
me  none  "  ;  and  as  she  went  down  the  stairs  she  softly 
rubbed  her  lips  with  the  side  of  her  forefinger. 

John  understood  now  why  David  had  looked  out  of 
the  back  window  so  often  that  morning.  All  his  be- 
longings were  in  Aunt  Polly's  best  bedroom,  having 
been  moved  over  from  the  Eagle  while  he  and  David 
had  been  in  the  office.  A  delightful  room  it  was,  in 
immeasurable  contrast  to  his  squalid  surroundings  at 
that  hostelry.  The  spacious  bed,  with  its  snowy  coun- 
terpane and  silk  patchwork  "comf 'table"  folded  on 
the  foot,  the  bright  fire  in  the  open  stove,  the  big 
bureau  and  glass,  the  soft  carpet,  the  table  for  writing 
and  reading  standing  in  the  bay,  his  books  on  the  broad 
mantel,  and  his  dressing  things  laid  out  ready  to  his 
hand,  not  to  mention  an  ample  supply  of  dry  towels  on 
the  rack. 


222  DAVID   HARUM 

The  poor  fellow's  life  during  the  weeks  which  he  had 
lived  in  Homeville  had  been  utterly  in  contrast  with 
any  previous  experience.  Nevertheless  he  had  tried 
to  make  the  best  of  it,  and  to  endure  the  monotony, 
the  dullness,  the  entire  lack  of  companionship  and 
entertainment,  with  what  philosophy  he  could  muster. 
The  hours  spent  in  the  office  were  the  best  part  of  the 
day.  He  could  manage  to  find  occupation  for  all  of 
them,  though  a  village  bank  is  not  usually  a  scene  of 
active  bustle.  Many  of  the  people  who  did  business 
there  diverted  him  somewhat,  and  most  of  them  seemed 
never  too  much  in  a  hurry  to  stand  around  and  talk 
the  sort  of  thing  that  interested  them.  After  John 
had  got  acquainted  with  his  duties  and  the  people  he 
came  in  contact  with,  David  gave  less  personal  atten- 
tion to  the  affairs  of  the  bank  ;  but  he  was  in  and  out 
frequently  during  the  day,  and  rarely  failed  to  interest 
his  cashier  with  his  observations  and  remarks. 

But  the  long  winter  evenings  had  been  very  bad. 
After  supper,  a  meal  which  revolted  every  sense,  there 
had  been  as  many  hours  to  be  got  through  with  as  he 
found  wakeful,  an  empty  stomach  often  adding  to  the 
number  of  them,  and  the  only  resource  for  passing  the 
time  had  been  reading,  which  had  often  been  well-nigh 
impossible  for  sheer  physical  discomfort.  As  has  been 
remarked,  the  winter  climate  of  the  middle  portion  of 
New  York  State  is  as  bad  as  can  be  imagined.  His 
light  was  a  kerosene  lamp  of  half-candle  power,  and 
his  appliance  for  warmth  consisted  of  a  small  wood 
stove,  which  (as  David  would  have  expressed  it)  "took 
two  men  an'  a  boy  "  to  keep  in  action,  and  was  either 
red-hot  or  exhausted. 

As  from  the  depths  of  a  spacious  lounging-chair  he 


DAVID   HARUM  223 

surveyed  his  new  surroundings,  and  contrasted  them 
with  those  from  which  he  had  been  rescued  out  of  pure 
kindness,  his  heart  was  full,  and  it  can  hardly  be  im- 
puted to  him  as  a  weakness  that  for  a  moment  his  eyes 
filled  with  tears  of  gratitude  and  happiness — no  less. 

Indeed,  there  were  four  happy  people  at  David's 
table  that  Christmas  day.  Aunt  Polly  had  "smartened 
up  "  Mrs.  Cullom  with  collar  and  cuffs,  and  in  various 
ways  which  the  mind  of  man  comprehendeth  not  in 
detail ;  and  there  had  been  some  arranging  of  her  hair 
as  well ;  which  altogether  had  so  transformed  and  trans- 
figured her  that  John  thought  that  he  should  hardly 
have  known  her  for  the  forlorn  creature  whom  he  had 
encountered  in  the  morning.  And  as  he  looked  at  the 
still  fine  eyes,  large  and  brown,  and  shining  for  the  first 
time  in  many  a  year  with  a  soft  light  of  happiness,  he 
felt  that  he  could  understand  how  it  was  that  Billy  P. 
had  married  the  village  girl. 

Mrs.  Bixbee  was  grand  in  black  silk  and  lace  collar 
fastened  with  a  shell-cameo  pin  not  quite  as  large  as  a 
saucer,  and  John  caught  the  sparkle  of  a  diamond  on 
her  plump  left  hand— David's  Christmas  gift,  with 
regard  to  which  she  had  spoken  apologetically  to  Mrs. 
Cullom  : 

"I  told  David  that  I  was  ever  so  much  obliged  to 
him,  but  I  didn't  want  a  dimun'  more'n  a  cat  wanted  a 
flag,  an'  I  thought  it  was  jes'  thro  win'  away  money. 
But  he  would  have  it— said  I  c'd  sell  it  an'  keep  out 
the  poorhouse  some  day,  mebbe." 

David  had  not  made  much  change  in  his  usual  rai- 
ment, but  he  was  shaved  to  the  blood,  and  his  round 
red  face  shone  with  soap  and  satisfaction.  As  he 
tucked  his  napkin  into  his  shirt  collar,  Sairy  brought 


224 


DAVID   HARUM 


in  the  tureen  of  oyster  soup,  and  he  remarked,  as  he 
took  his  first  spoonful  of  the  stew,  that  he  was  "hungry 
'nough  t'  eat  a  graven  imige  "  ;  a  condition  that  John 
was  able  to  sympathize  with  after  his  two  days  of  fast- 
ing on  crackers  and  such  provisions  as  he  could  buy  at 
Purse's.  It  was,  on  the  whole,  he  reflected,  the  most 

enjoyable  dinner  that 
he  ever  ate.  Never 
was  such  a  turkey ; 
and  to  see  it  give  way 
under  David's 
skillful  knife 
—wings,  drum- 
sticks, second 
joints,  side 
bones,  breast 
—was  an  el- 
evating and 
memorable  ex- 
perience. And 
such  potatoes, 
mashed  in 

cream  !  such  boiled  onions,  turnips, 
Hubbard  squash,  succotash,  stewed 
tomatoes,  celery,  cranberries,  "cur- 
rant jell"  !  Oh !  and  to  "top  off"  with,  a  mince-pie 
to  die  for,  and  a  pudding  (new  to  John,  but  just  you 
try  it  some  time)  of  steamed  Indian  meal  and  fruit,  with 
a  sauce  of  cream  sweetened  with  shaved  maple  sugar. 

"What'll  you  have?"  said  David  to  Mrs.  Cullom, 
"dark  meat?  white  meat?" 

"Anything,"  she  replied  meekly  ;  "I'm  not  partic'ler. 
'Most  any  part  of  a  turkey '11  taste  good,  I  guess." 


DAVID  HARUM  225 

"All  right,"  said  David.  "' Don't  care'  means  a  lit- 
tle o'  both.  I  alwus  know  what  to  give  Polly— piece 
o'  the  second  j'int,  an'  the  last-thing-over-the-fence. 
Nice  'n'  rich  fer  scraggly  folks/'  he  remarked.  "How 
fer  you,  John?— little  o'  both,  eh?"  and  he  heaped  the 
plate  till  our  friend  begged  him  to  keep  something  for 
himself. 

"Little  too  much  is  jes'  right,"  he  asserted. 

When  David  had  filled  the  plates  and  handed  them 
along— Sairy  was  for  bringing  in  and  taking  out,  while 
they  did  their  own  helping  to  vegetables  and  "passin' " 
— he  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  got  out  of  his 
chair  and  started  in  the  direction  of  the  kitchen 
door. 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  Mrs.  Bixbee  in  surprise. 
"AVhere  you  goin'?" 

"Woodshed,"  said  David. 

"Woodshed!"  she  exclaimed,  making  as  if  to  rise 
and  follow. 

"You  set  still,"  said  David.     "Somethin'  I  fergot." 

"What  on  earth!"  she  exclaimed,  with  an  air  of 
annoyance  and  bewilderment.  "What  do  you  want  in 
the  woodshed?  Can't  you  set  down  an'  let  Sairy  git  it 
for  ye?" 

"No,"  he  asserted,  with  a  grin.  "Sairy  might  sqush 
it.  It  must  be  putty  meller  by  this  time."  And  out 
he  went. 

"Manners  ! "  ejaculated  Mrs.  Bixbee.  "You'll  think  " 
(to  John)  "we're  reg'ler  heathin." 

"I  guess  not,"  said  John,  smiling  and  much  amused. 

Presently  Sairy  appeared  with  four  tumblers,  which 
she  distributed,  and  was  followed  by  David  bearing  a 
bottle.  He  seated  himself  and  began  a  struggle  to  un- 


226 


DAVID   HARUM 


wire  the  same  with  an  ice-pick.    Aunt  Polly  leaned 
forward  with  a  look  of  perplexed  curiosity. 
"What  you  got  there? "  she  asked. 
"Vewve  Clikot's  universal  an'  suv'rin  remedy,"  said 
David,  reading  the  label  and  bringing  the  corners  of 

his  eye  and  mouth 
almost  together  in  a 
i^  wink  to  John,  "fer 
toothache,  ear- 
ache, burns, 
scalds,  warts, 
dispepsy,  fall- 
in'  o'  the  hair, 
wind-gal  1, 
ring-bone, 
spavin,  disap- 
p'inted  affections,  an' 
pips  in  hens."  And 
out  came  the  cork 
with  a  wop  !  at  which 
both  the  ladies,  even 
Cullom,  jumped  and 


declared  his  sister, 
believe   thet   that's 


1   cried  out. 
'David  Harum,' 
with   conviction,   "I 
a  bottle  of  champagne  ! " 

"If  it  ain't,"  said  David,  pouring  into  his  tumbler, 
"I  ben  swindled  out  o'  four  shillin'  "  ;  and  he  passed  the 
bottle  to  John,  who  held  it  up  inquiringly,  looking  at 
Mrs.  Bixbee. 

"No,  thank  ye,"  she  said,  with  a  little  toss  of  the 
head,  "I'm  a  son  o'  temp'rence.  I  don't  believe,"  she 
remarked  to  Mrs.  Cullom,  "thet  that  bottle  ever  cost 
less  'n  a  dollar."  At  which  remarks  David  apparently 


DAVID    HARUM  227 

"swallered  somethin'  the  wrong  way/'  and  for  a  mo- 
ment or  two  was  unable  to  proceed  with  his  dinner. 
Aunt  Polly  looked  at  him  suspiciously.  It  was  her 
experience  that,  in  her  intercourse  with  her  brother, 
he  often  laughed  utterly  without  reason— so  far  as  she 
could  see. 

"I've  always  heard  it  was  dreadful  expensive," 
remarked  Mrs.  Cullom. 

"Let  me  give  you  some,"  said  John,  reaching  toward 
her  with  the  bottle. 

Mrs.  Cullom  looked  first  at  Mrs.  Bixbee  and  then  at 
David.  "I  don't  know,"  she  saidi  "I  never  tasted 
any." 

"Take  a  little,"  said  David,  nodding  approvingly. 

"Just  a  swaller,"  said  the  widow,  whose  curiosity  had 
got  the  better  of  scruples.  She  took  a  swallow  of  the 
wine. 

"How  do  ye  like  it?"  asked  David. 

"Well,"  she  said  as  she  wiped  her  eyes,  into  which 
the  gas  had  driven  the  tears,  "I  guess  I  could  get  along 
if  I  couldn't  have  it  regular." 

"Don't  taste  good?"  suggested  David,  with  a  grin. 

"Well,"  she  replied,  "I  never  did  care  any  great  for 
cider,  an'  this  tastes  to  me  about  as  if  I  was  drinkiu' 
cider  an'  suuffiu'  horseredish  at  one  an'  the  same 
time." 

"How's  that,  John?"  said  David,  laughing. 

"I  suppose  it's  an  acquired  taste,"  said  John,  return- 
ing the  laugh  and  taking  a  mouthful  of  the  wine  with 
infinite  relish.  "I  don't  think  I  ever  enjoyed  a  glass 
of  wine  so  much,  or,"  turning  to  Aunt  Polly,  "ever 
enjoyed  a  dinner  so  much";  which  statement  com- 
pletely mollified  her  feelings,  which  had  been  the  least 
bit  in  the  world  "set  edgeways." 
16 


228  DAVID   HARUM 

"Mebbe  your  app'tite's  got  somethin'  to  do  with  it," 
said  David,  shoveling  a  knife-load  of  good  things  into 
his  mouth.  "Polly,  this  young  man's  ben  livin'  on 
crackers  an'  salt  herrin'  fer  a  week." 

"My  land  ! "  cried  Mrs.  Bixbee,  with  an  expression  of 
horror.  "Is  that  reelly  so?  'Tain't  now,  reelly?" 

"Not  quite  so  bad  as  that,"  John  answered,  smiling  ; 
"but  Mrs.  Elright  has  been  ill  for  a  couple  of  days  and 
—well,  I  have  been  foraging  around  Purse's  store  a 
little." 

"Wa'al,  of  all  the  mean  shames ! "  exclaimed  Aunt 
Polly  indignantly.  "David  Harum,  you'd  ought  to  be 
ridic'lous  t'  allow  such  a  thing." 

"Wa'al,  I  never  ! "  said  David,  holding  his  knife  and 
fork  straight  up  in  either  fist  as  they  rested  on  the 
table,  and  staring  at  his  sister.  "I  believe  if  the 
naeetin' -house  roof  was  to' blow  off  you'd  lay  it  onto  me 
somehow.  I  hain't  ben  runnin'  the  Eagle  tavern  fer 
quite  a  consid'able  while.  You  got  the  wrong  pig  by 
the  ear,  as  usual.  Jes'  you  pitch  into  him,"  pointing 
with  his  fork  to  John.  "It's  his  funeral,  if  anybody's." 

"Wa'al,"  said  Aunt  Polly,  addressing  John  in  a  tone 
of  injury,  "I  do  think  you  might  have  let  somebody 
know  ;  I  think  you'd  orter  've  known — : 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Bixbee,"  he  interrupted,  "I  did  know  how 
kind  you  are  and  would  have  been,  and  if  matters  had 
gone  on  so  much  longer  I  should  have  appealed  to  you 
— I  should  have,  indeed  ;  but  really,"  he  added,  smiling 
at  her,  "a  dinner  like  this  is  worth  fasting  a  week  for." 

"Wa'al,"  she  said,  mollified  again,  "you  won't  git  no 
more  herrin'  'nless  you  ask  fer  'em." 

"That  is  just  what  your  brother  said  this  morning," 
replied  John,  looking  at  David  with  a  laugh. 


CHAPTEE  XXIV 

THE  meal  proceeded  in  silence  for  a  few  minutes.  Mrs. 
Cullom  had  said  but  little,  but  John  noticed  that  her 
diction  was  more  conventional  than  in  her  talk  with 
David  and  himself  in  the  morning,  and  that  her  man- 
ner at  the  table  was  distinctly  refined,  although  she  ate 
with  apparent  appetite,  not  to  say  hunger.  Presently 
she  said,  with  an  air  of  making  conversation,  "I  sup- 
pose you've  always  lived  in  the  city,  Mr.  Lenox?" 

"It  has  always  been  my  home,"  he  replied,  "but  I 
have  been  away  a  good  deal." 

"I  suppose  folks  in  the  city  go  to  theaters  a  good 
deal,"  she  remarked. 

"They  have  a  great  many  opportunities,"  said  John, 
wondering  what  she  was  leading  up  to.  But  he  was 
not  to  discover,  for  David  broke  in  with  a  chuckle. 

"Ask  Polly,  Mis'  Cullom,"  he  said.  "She  c'n  tell  ye 
all  about  the  theater,  Polly  kin." 

Mrs.  Cullom  looked  from  David  to  Mrs.  Bixbee, 
whose  face  was  suffused. 

"Tell  her,"  said  David,  with  a  grin. 

"I  wish  you'd  shet  up  !"  she  exclaimed.  "I  sha'n't 
do  nothin'  of  the  sort." 

"Ne'  mind,"  said  David  cheerfully,  " Fll  tell  ye,  Mis' 
Cullom." 

"Dave  Harum!"  expostulated  Mrs.  Bixbee  5  but  he 
proceeded  without  heed  of  her  protest. 

"Polly  an'  I,"  he  said,  "went  down  to  New  York  one 
spring  some  years  ago.  Her  nerves  was  some  wore  out 
'long  of  dift'rences  with  Sairy  about  clearin'  up  the 


230  DAVID   HARUM 

woodshed,  an'  bread-risin's,  an'  not  bein'  able  to  suit 
herself  up  to  Purse's  in  the  qual'ty  of  silk  velvit  she 
wanted  fer  a  Suuday-go-to-meetin'  gown,  an'  I  thought 
a  spell  off  'd  do  her  good.  Wa'al,  the  day  after  we 
got  there  I  says  to  her  while  we  was  havin'  breakfust— 
it  was  picked-up  el'phant  on  toast,  near  's  I  c'u  remem- 
ber, wa'ii'tit,  Polly?" 

"That's  as  near  the  truth  as  most  o'  the  rest  on't  so 
fur,"  said  Polly,  with  a  sniff. 

"Wa'al,  I  says  to  her,"  he  proceeded,  untouched  by 
her  scorn,  "'How'd  you  like  to  go  t'  the  theater?  You 
hain't  never  ben,'  I  says,  'an'  now  you're  down  here, 

*~  you  may  jest  as  well 
see  somethiu'  while 
you  got  a  chanst,'  I 


time"  he  remarked, 
as  it  were  in  passing, 
"she'd  ben  somewhat 
prejuced  'ginst  the- 
aters, an'— 

"Wa'al,"  Mrs.  Bix- 
bee  broke  in,  "I  guess  what  we  see  that  night  was 
cal'lated-" 

"You  hold  on,"  he  interposed.  "I'm  tellin'  this 
story.  You  had  a  chanst  to  an'  wouldn't.  Anyway," 
he  resumed,  "she  allowed  she'd  try  it  once,  an'  we 
agreed  we'd  go  somewheres  that  night.  But  somethin' 
happened  to  put  it  out  o'  my  mind,  an'  I  didn't  think 
on't  agin  till  I  got  back  to  the  hotel  fer  supper.  So  I 
went  to  the  feller  at  the  news-stand,  an'  says,  'Got  any 
show-tickits  fer  to-night?' 
"'Theater?'  he  says. 


DAVID   HARUM  231 

"'I  reckon  so,'  I  says. 

"'Wa'al,'  he  says,  'I  hain't  got  nothin'  now  but  two 
seats  fer  Clyanthy.' 

"'Is  it  a  good  show? '  I  says— 'moral  an'  so  on?  I'm 
goin'  to  take  my  sister,  an'  she's  a  little  pertic'ler  about 
some  things/  I  says.  He  kind  o'  grinned,  the  feller 
did.  '  I've  took  my  wife  twice,  an'  she's  putty  pertic'ler 
herself,'  he  says,  laughin'." 

"She  must  'a'  ben,"  remarked  Mrs.  Bixbee,  with  a 
sniff  that  spoke  volumes  of  her  opinion  of  "the  feller's 
wife." 

David  emitted  a  chuckle.  "Wa'al,"  he  continued, 
"I  took  the  tickits  on  the  feller's  recommend  an'  the 
fact  of  his  wife's  bein'  so  pertic'ler,  an'  after  supper  we 
went.  It  was  a  mighty  handsome  place  inside,  gilded 
an'  carved  all  over  like  the  outside  of  a  cirkis  wagin, 
an'  when  we  went  in  the  orchestry  was  playin'  an'  the 
people  was  comin'  in,  an'  after  we'd  set  a  few  minutes 
I  says  to  Polly,  'What  do  you  think  on't?'  I  says. 

"'I  don't  see  any  thin'  very  unbecomin'  so  fur,  an'  the 
people  looks  respectable  enough,'  she  says. 

"'No  jail-birds  in  sight  fur  's  ye  c'n  see  so  fur,  be 
they  ? '  I  says.  He,  he,  he,  he  ! " 

"You  needn't  make  me  out  more  of  a  gump  'n  I 
was,"  protested  Mrs.  Bixbee.  "An'  you  was  jest  as — " 

David  held  up  his  finger  at  her.  "Don't  you  spile 
the  story  by  discountin'  the  sequil.  Wa'al,  putty  soon 
the  band  struck  up  some  kind  of  a  dancin'  tune,  an'  the 
curt'in  went  up,  an'  a  girl  come  prancin'  down  to  the 
footlights  an'  begun  singin'  an'  dancin',  an',  scat  my—  ! 
to  all  human  appearances,  you  c'd  'a'  covered  ev'ry 
dum  thing  she  had  on  with  a  postage-stamp." 

John  stole  a  glance  at  Mrs.  Cullom.     She  was  staring 


232  DAVID   HARUM 

at  the  speaker  with  wide-open  eyes  of  horror  and 

amazement. 

"I  guess  I  wouldn't  go  very  fur  into  pertic'lers,"  said 

Mrs.  Bixbee  in  a  warning  tone. 

David  bent  his  head  down  over  his  plate  and  shook 

from  head  to  foot,  and  it  was  nearly  a  minute  before 
he  was  able  to  go  on.  "Wa'al,"  he  said, 
"I  heard  Polly  give  a  kind  of  a  gasp  an' 
a  snort,  's  if  some  one  'd  throwed  water 
'n  her  face.  But  she  didn't  say  nothin', 
an',  I  swan  !  I  didn't  dast  to  look  at  her 
fer  a  spell ;  an'  putty  soon  in  come  a  hull 
crowd  more  girls  that  had  left  their  clo'es 
in  their  trunks  or  somewhere,  singin'  an' 
dancin'  an'  weavin'  round  on  the  stage, 

an'  after  a  few  minutes  I  turned  an'  looked  at  Polly. 

He,  he,  he,  he  ! " 

"David  Harum  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Bixbee,  "ef  you're  goin' 

to  discribe  any  more  o'  them  scand'lous  goin's  on  I  sh'll 

take  my  victuals  into  the  kitchin.     I  didn't  see  no 

more  of  'em,"  she  added  to  Mrs.  Cullom  and  John, 

"after  that  fust  trollop  appeared." 

"I  don't  believe  she  did,"  said  David,  "fer  when  I 

turned  she  set  there  with  her  eyes  shet  tighter  'n  a 

drum,  an'  her  mouth  shet,  too,  so's  her  nose  an'  chin 

'most  come  together,  an'  her  face  was  red  enough  so't 

a  streak  o'  red  paint  'd  'a'  made  a  white  mark  on  it. 

' Polly,'  I  says,  'I'm  afraid  you  ain't  gettin'  the  wuth  o' 

your  money.' 

"'David  Harum,'  she  says,  with  her  mouth  shet  all 

but  a  little  place  in  the  corner  toward  me,  'if  you 

don't  take  me  out  o'  this  place,  I'll  go  without  ye,'  she 

says. 


'We  sneaked  up  the  aisle. 


DAVID    HARUM 


233 


"'Don't  you  think  you  c'd  stan'  it  a  little  longer?' 
I  says.  'Mebbe  they've  sent  home  fer  their  clo'es,'  I 
says.  He,  he,  he,  he !  But  with  that  she  jes'  give  a 
hump  to  start,  an'  I  see  she  meant  bus'nis.  When 
Polly  Bixbee,"  said  David  impressively,  "puts  that 


foot  o'  hern  down  somethin's  got  to  sqush,  an'  don't 
you  fergit  it." 

Mrs.  Bixbee  made  no  acknowledgment  of  this  trib- 
ute to  her  strength  of  character.  John  looked  at 
David. 


234  DAVID   HARUM 

"Yes,"  he  said,  with  a  solemn  bend  of  the  head,  as  if 
in  answer  to  a  question,  "I  squshed.  I  says  to  her, 
'All  right.  Don't  make  no  disturbance  more'n  you 
c'n  help,  an'  jes'  put  your  hank'chif  up  to  your  nose  's 
if  you  had  the  nose-bleed ' ;  an'  we  squeezed  out  of  the 
seats  an'  sneaked  up  the  aisle,  an'  by  the  time  we  got 
out  into  the  entry  I  guess  my  face  was  as  red  as  Polly's. 
It  couldn't  'a'  ben  no  redder,"  he  added. 

"You  got  a  putty  fair  color  as  a  gen'ral  thing,"  re- 
marked Mrs.  Bixbee  dryly. 

"Yes,  ma'am ;  yes,  ma'am,  I  expect  that's  so,"  he 
assented,  "but  I  got  an  extry  coat  o'  tan  follerin'  you 
out  o'  that  theater.  When  we  got  out  into  the  entry, 
one  o'  them  fellers  that  stands  round  steps  up  to  me, 
an'  says,  ' Ain't  your  ma  feelin'  well?'  he  says.  'Her 
feelin's  has  ben  a  trifle  rumpled  up,'  I  says,  'an'  that 
gen' ally  brings  on  the  nose-bleed' ;  an'  then,"  said  David, 
looking  over  Mrs.  Bixbee's  head,  "the  feller  went  an' 
leaned  up  agin  the  wall." 

"David  Harum!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Bixbee,  "that's  a 
downright  lie !  You  never  spoke  to  a  soul,  an' — an'— 
ev'rybody  knows  't  I  ain't  more'n  four  years  older  'n 
you  be." 

"Wa'al,  you  see,  Polly,"  her  brother  replied  in  a 
smooth  tone  of  measureless  aggravation,  "the  feller 
wa'n't  acquainted  with  us,  an'  he  only  went  by  appear- 
ances." 

Aunt  Polly  appealed  to  John  :  "Ain't  he  enough  to 
— to-Id'  know  what?" 

"I  really  don't  see  how  you  live  with  him,"  said 
John,  laughing. 

Mrs.  Cullom's  face  wore  a  faint  smile,  as  if  she 
were  conscious  that  something  amusing  was  going 


DAVID   HARUM  235 

on,  but  was  not  quite  sure  what.     The  widow  took 
things  seriously  for  the  most  part,  poor  soul. 

"I  reckon  you  haven't  followed  theater-goiii'  much 
after  that,"  she  said  to  her  hostess. 

"No,  ma'am,"  Mrs.  Bixbee  replied  with  emphasis, 
"you  better  believe  I  hain't.    I  hain't 
never  thought  of  it  sence  without  ting-        \ 
lin'  all  over.     I  believe,"  she  asserted, 
"that  David  'd  'a'  stayed  the  thing 
out  if  it  hadn't  ben  fer  me  ;  but 
as  true  's  you  live,  Cynthy  Cul- 
lom,  I  was  so  'shamed  at  the         > 
little  't  I  did  see  that  when      /•/ 
I  come  to  go  to  bed  I  took   / 
my  clo'es  off  in  the  dark."      /  M 

David  threw  back  his       ;A£ 
head    and    roared    with    /•    /f 
laughter.      Mrs.     Bixbee  /  ,/M 
looked  at  him  with  un- 
mixed scorn.  "If  I  could- 
n't help  makin'  a — "  she 
began,  "I'd-" 

"O  Lord  !  Polly,"  David 
broke  in,  "be  sure  'n'  wrap 
up  when  you  go  out.  If  you  sh'd  ketch  cold  an'  your 
sense  o'  the  ridic'lous  sh'd  strike  in  you'd  be  a  dead-'n'- 
goner  sure." 

This  was  treated  with  the  silent  contempt  which 
it  deserved,  and  David  fell  upon  his  dinner  with  the 
remark  that  he  "guessed  he'd  better  make  up  fer  lost 
time,"  though  as  a  matter  of  fact,  while  he  had  done 
most  of  the  talking,  he  had  by  no  means  suspended 
another  function  of  his  mouth  while  so  engaged. 


236  DAVID   HARUM 

For  a  time  nothing  more  was  said  which  did  not 
relate  to  the  replenishment  of  plates,  glasses,  and  cups. 
Finally  David  cleaned  up  his  plate  with  his  knife-blade 
and  a  piece  of  bread,  and  pushed  it  away  with  a  sigh 
of  fullness  mentally  echoed  by  John. 

"I  feel  's  if  a  child  could  play  with  me,"  he  re- 
marked. "What's  comin'  now,  Polly?" 

"The's  a  mince-pie,  an'  Injun  puddin'  with  maple 
sugar  an'  cream,  an'  ice-cream,"  she  replied. 

"Mercy  on  us!"  he  exclaimed.  "I  guess  I'll  have 
to  go  an'  jump  up  an'  down  on  the  verandy.  How  do 
you  feel,  John?  I  s'pose  you  got  so  used  to  them 
things  at  the  Eagle  't  you  won't  have  no  stomech  fer 
'em,  eh?  Wa'al,  fetch  'em  along.  May  's  well  die  fer 
the  ole  sheep  's  the  lamb  ;  but,  Polly  Bixbee,  if  you've 
got  designs  on  my  life,  I  may 's  well  tell  ye  right  now 't 
I've  left  all  my  prop'ty  to  the  Institution  fer  Disap- 
p'inted  Hoss-swappers." 

"That's  putty  near  next  o'  kin,  ain't  it?"  was  the 
unexpected  rejoinder  of  the  injured  Polly. 

"Wa'al,  scat  my  —  ! "  exclaimed  David,  hugely 
amused,  "if  Polly  Bixbee  hain't  made  a  joke  !  You'll 
git  yourself  into  the  almanic,  Polly,  fust  thing  you 
know." 

Sairy  brought  in  the  pie  and  then  the  pudding. 

"John,"  said  David,  "if  you've  got  a  pencil  an'  a 
piece  o'  paper  handy  I'd  like  to  have  ye  take  down 
a  few  of  my  last  words  'fore  we  proceed  to  the  pie 
an'  puddin'  bus'nis.  Any  more  'hossredish'  in  that 
bottle?"  holding  out  his  glass.  "Hi!  hi!  that's 
enough.  You  take  the  rest  on't";  which  John  did, 
nothing  loath. 

David  ate  his  pie  in  silence,  but  before  he  made  up 


DAVID   HARUM  237 

his  mind  to  attack  the  pudding,  which  was  his  favorite 
confection,  he  gave  an  audible  chuckle,  which  elicited 
Mrs.  Bixbee's  notice. 

"What  you  gigglin'  'bout  now?"  she  asked. 

David  laughed.  "I  was  thinkin'  of  somethin'  I 
heard  up  to  Purse's  last  night,"  he  said  as  he  covered 
his  pudding  with  the  thick  cream  sauce.  "Amri 
Shapless  has  ben  gittin'  married." 

"Wa'al,  I  declare!"  she  exclaimed.  "That  ole 
shack  !  Who  in  creation  could  he  git  to  take  him  ?  " 

"'Lize  Annis  is  the  lucky  woman,"  replied  David, 
with  a  grin. 

"Wa'al,  if  that  don't  beat  all ! "  said  Mrs.  Bixbee, 
throwing  up  her  hands,  and  even  from  Mrs.  Cullom 
was  drawn  a  "Well,  I  never  ! " 

"Fact,"  said  David  ;  "they  was  married  yestid'y  fore- 
noon. Squire  Parker  done  the  job.  Dominie  White 
wouldn't  have  nothin'  to  do  with  it ! " 

"Squire  Parker  'd  orter  be  'shamed  of  himself,"  said 
Mrs.  Bixbee  indignantly. 

"Don't  you  think  that  trew  love  had  ought  to  be 
allowed  to  take  its  course?"  asked  David,  with  an  air 
of  sentiment. 

"I  think  the  squire  'd  orter  be  'shamed  of  himself," 
she  reiterated.  "S'pose  them  two  old  skmamulinks 
was  to  go  an'  have  children?" 

"Polly,  you  make  me  blush  ! "  protested  her  brother. 
"Hain't  you  got  no  respect  fer  the  holy  institution  of 
matrimuny? — an'— et  cetry?"  he  added,  wiping  his 
whole  face  with  his  napkin. 

"Much  as  you  hev,  I  reckon,"  she  retorted.  "Of  all 
the  amazin'  things  in  this  world,  the  amazin'ist  to  me 
is  the  kind  of  people  that  gits  married  to  each  other 


238  DAVID   HARUM 

in  gen'ral ;  but  this  here  performence  beats  ev'rythin' 
holler." 

"Amri  give  a  very  good  reason  for't,"  said  David,  with 
an  air  of  conviction,  and  then  he  broke  into  a  laugh. 

"Ef  you  got  any  thin'  to  tell,  tell  it,"  said  Mrs.  Bix- 
bee  impatiently. 

"Wa'al,"  said  David,  taking  the  last  of  his  pudding 
into  his  mouth,  "if  you  insist  on't,  painful  as  'tis.  I 
heard  Dick  Larrabee  tellin'  'bout  it.  Amri  told  Dick, 
day  before  yestid'y,  that  he  was  thinkin'  of  gettin' 
married,  an'  ast  him  to  go  along  with  him  to  Parson 
White's  an'  be  a  witniss  an',  I  reckon,  a  kind  of  moral 
support.  When  it  comes  to  moral  supportin',"  re- 
marked David  in  passing,  "Dick's  as  good  's  a  profes- 
sional, an'  he'd  go  an'  see  his  gran'mother  hung  sooner 
'n  miss  anythin',  an'  never  let  his  cigar  go  out  durin' 
the  performence.  Dick  said  he  congratilated  Am  on 
his  choice,  an'  said  he  reckoned  they'd  be  putty  ekally 
yoked  together,  if  nothin'  else." 

Here  David  leaned  over  toward  Aunt  Polly  and  said 
protestingly,  "Don't  gi'  me  but  jest  a  teasp'nful  o'  that 
ice  cream.  I'm  so  full  now  't  I  can't  hardly  reach  the 
table."  He  took  a  taste  of  the  cream  and  resumed  :  "I 
can't  give  it  jest  as  Dick  did,"  he  went  on,  "but  this  is 
about-  the  gist  on't.  Him  an'  'Lize  an'  Am  went  to 
Parson  White's  about  half  after  seven  o'clock,  an'  was 
showed  into  the  parler,  an'  in  a  minute  he  come  in,  an* 
after  sayin'  'Good-evenin"  all  round,  he  says,  'Well, 
what  c'n  I  do  for  ye?'  lookin'  at  Am  an'  'Lize,  an* 
then  at  Dick. 

"'Wa'al,'  says  Am,  'me  an'  Mis'  Annis  here  has 
ben  thinkin'  fer  some  time  as  how  we'd  orter  git 
married.' 


DAVID    HARUM 


239 


"'  Ought  to  git  married? '  says  Parson  White,  scowlin' 
fust  at  one  an'  then  at  t'other. 

"'Wa'al,'  says  Am,  giviu'  a  kind  o'  shuffle  with  his 
feet,  'I  didn't  mean  orter  exac'ly,  but  jest  as  well — 


kinder  comp'ny,'  he  says.  'We  hain't  neither  011  us 
got  nobody,  an'  we  thought  we  might 's  well.' 

"'What  have  you  got  to  git  married  on?'  says  the 
dominie,  after  a  minute.  '  Any  thin'  ? '  he  says. 

"'Wa'al,'  says  Am,  droppin'  his  head  sideways  an' 
borin'  into  his  ear  'ith  his  middle  finger,  'I  got  the 
promise  mebbe  of  a  job  o'  work  fer  a  couple  o'  days 


240  DAVID   HARUM 

next  week.'  'H'm'm'm,'  says  the  dominie,  lookin'  at 
him.  '  Have  you  got  anythin'  to  git  married  on  ? '  the 
dominie  says,  turnin'  to  'Lize.  'I've  got  ninety  cents 
comin'  to  me  fer  some  work  I  done  last  week/  she  says, 
wiltin'  down  onto  the  sofy  an  beginnin'  to  snivvle. 
Dick  says  that  at  that  the  dominie  turned  round  an' 
walked  to  the  other  end  of  the  room,  an'  he  c'd  see  he  was 
dyin'  to  laugh,  but  he  come  back  with  a  straight  face. 

"'How  old  air  you,  Shapless1?'  he  says  to  Am.  'I'll 
be  fifty-eight  or  mebbe  fifty-nine,  come  next  spring,' 
says  Am. 

"'How  old  air  you?'  the  dominie  says,  turnin'  to 
'Lize.  She  wriggled  a  minute  an'  says,  'Wa'al,  I 
reckon  I'm  all  o'  thirty,'  she  says." 

"All  o'  thirty!"  exclaimed  Aunt  Polly.  "The 
woman  's  'most 's  old  's  I  be." 

David  laughed  and  went  on  with,  "Wa'al,  Dick  said 
at  that  the  dominie  give  a  kind  of  a  choke,  an'  Dick  he 
bust  right  out,  an'  'Lize  looked  at  him  as  if  she  c'd  eat 
him.  Dick  said  the  dominie  didn't  say  anythin'  fer  a 
minute  or  two,  an'  then  he  says  to  Am,  'I  suppose  you 
c'n  find  somebody  that'll  marry  you,  but  I  cert' inly 
won't ;  an'  what  possesses  you  to  commit  such  a  piece  o' 
folly,'  he  says, '  passes  my  understandin'.  What  earthly 
reason  have  you  fer  wantin'  to  marry1?  On  your  own 
showin','  he  says,  'neither  one  on  you  's  got  a  cent  o' 
money  or  any  settled  way  o'  gettin'  any.' 

'"That's  jes'  the  very  reason,'  says  Am,  'that's  jes' 
the  very  reason.  I  hain't  got  nothin',  an'  Mis'  Annis 
hain't  got  nothin',  an'  we  figured  that  we'd  jes'  better 
git  married  an'  settle  down,  an'  make  a  good  home  fer 
us  both.'  An'  if  that  ain't  good  reasonin',"  David  con- 
cluded, "I  don't  know  what  is." 


DAVID   HARUM  241 

"An'  be  they  actially  married?"  asked  Mrs.  Bixbee, 
still  incredulous  of  anything  so  preposterous. 

"So  Dick  says,"  was  the  reply.  "He  says  Am  an' 
'Lize  come  away  f'm  the  dominie's  putty  down  in  the 
mouth,  but  'fore  long  Amri  braced  up  an'  allowed  that 
if  he  had  half  a  dollar  he'd  try  the  squire  in  the 
mornin',  an'  Dick  let  him  have  it.  I  says  to  Dick, 
'You're  out  fifty  cents  on  that  deal,'  an'  he  says,  slap- 
pin'  his  leg,  1 1  don't  give  a  dum,'  he  says ;  i  I  wouldn't 
'a'  missed  it  fer  double  the  money.'  " 

Here  David  folded  his  napkin  and  put  it  in  the  ring, 
and  John  finished  the  cup  of  clear  coffee  which  Aunt 
Polly,  rather  under  protest,  had  given  him.  Coifee 
without  cream  and  sugar  was  incomprehensible  to  Mrs. 
Bixbee. 


CHAPTER   XXV 

Two  or  three  days  after  Christmas  John  was  sitting 
in  his  room  in  the  evening  when  there  came  a  knock 
at  the  door,  and  to  his  "Come  in"  there  entered  Mr. 
Haruin,  who  was  warmly  welcomed  and  entreated  to 
take  the  big  chair,  which,  after  a  cursory  survey  of  the 
apartment  and  its  furnishings,  he  did,  saying,  "Wa'al, 
I  thought  I'd  come  in  an'  see  how  Polly 'd  got  you 
fixed  j  whether  the  baskit  [casket?]  was  worthy  of  the 
jew'l,  as  I  heard  a  feller  say  in  a  theater  once." 

"I  was  never  more  comfortable  in  my  life,"  said 
John.  "Mrs.  Bixbee  has  been  kindness  itself,  and  even 
permits  me  to  smoke  in  the  room.  Let  me  give  you  a 
cigar." 

"Heh  !  You  got  putty  well  round  Polly,  I  reckon," 
said  David,  looking  around  the  room  as  he  lighted  the 
cigar,  "an*  I'm  glad  you're  comf'table.  I  reckon  'tis 
a  shade  better  'u  the  Eagle,"  he  remarked,  with  his 
characteristic  chuckle. 

"I  should  say  so,"  said  John  emphatically,  "and  I 
am  more  obliged  than  I  can  tell  you." 

"All  Polly's  doin's,"  asserted  David,  holding  the  end 
of  his  cigar  critically  under  his  nose.  "That's  a  trifle 
better  article  'n  I'm  in  the  habit  of  srnokin',"  he 
remarked. 

"I  think  it's  my  one  extravagance,"  said  John  semi- 
apologetically,  "but  I  don't  smoke  them  exclusively.  I 
am  very  fond  of  good  tobacco,  and—' 

"I  understand,"  said  David,  "an'  if  1  had  my  life  to 


DAVID   HARUM  243 

live  over  agin,  knowin'  what  I  do  now,  I'd  do  different 
in  a  number  o'  ways.  I  often  think,"  he  proceeded,  as 
he  took  a  pull  at  the  cigar  and  emitted  the  smoke  with 
a  chewing  movement  of  his  mouth,  "of  what  Andy 
Brown  used  to  say.  Andy  was  a  curious  kind  of  a  cus- 
tomer 't  I  used  to  know  up  to  Syrchester.  He  liked 
good  things,  Andy  did,  an'  didn't  scrimp  himself  when 
they  was  to  be  had — that  is,  when  he  had  the  go-an'- 
fetch-it  to  git  'em  with.  He  used  to  say,  'Boys,  when- 
ever you  git  holt  of  a  ten-dollar  note  you  want  to  git  it 
into  ye  or  onto  ye  jest  's  quick  's  you  kin.  We're  here 
to-day  an'  gone  to-morrer,'  he'd  say,  'an'  the'  ain't  no 
pocket  in  a  shroud.'  An'  I'm  dum'd  if  I  don't  think 
sometimes,"  declared  Mr.  Harum,  "that  he  wa'n't  very 
fur  off,  neither.  'T  any  rate,"  he  added,  with  a  philoso- 
phy unexpected  by  his  hearer,  "'s  I  look  back,  it  ain't 
the  money  't  I've  spent  fer  the  good  times  't  I've  had  't 
I  regret ;  it's  the  good  times  't  I  might  's  well  've  had 
an'  didn't.  I'm  inclined  to  think,"  he  remarked,  with 
an  air  of  having  given  the  matter  consideration,  "that 
after  Adam  an'  Eve  got  bounced  out  of  the  gard'n  they 
kicked  themselves  as  much  as  anythin'  fer  not  havin' 
cleaned  up  the  hull  tree  while  they  was  about  it." 

John  laughed  and  said  that  that  was  very  likely 
among  their  regrets. 

"Trouble  with  me  was,"  said  David,  "that,  till  I  was 
consid'able  older  'n  you  be,  I  had  to  scratch  grav'l  like 
all  possessed,  an'  it's  hard  work  now  sometimes  to  git 
the  idee  out  of  my  head  but  what  the  money's  wuth 
more'n  the  things.  I  guess,"  he  remarked,  looking  at 
the  ivory-backed  brushes  and  the  various  toilet  knick- 
knacks  of  cut  glass  and  silver  which  adorned  John's 
bureau,  and  indicating  them  with  a  motion  of  his  hand, 
17 


244  DAVID   HARUM 

"that  up  to  about  now  you  ben  in  the  habit  of  figurin' 
the  other  way  mostly." 

"Too  much  so,  perhaps/'  said  John  ;  "but  yet,  after 
all,  I  don't  think  I  am  sorry.  I  wouldn't  spend  the 
money  for  those  things  now,  but  I  am  glad  I  bought 
them  when  I  did." 

"Jes'  so,  jes'  so,"  said  David  appreciatively.  He 
reached  over  to  the  table  and  laid  his  cigar  on  the 
edge  of  a  book,  and,  reaching  for  his  hip  pocket,  pro- 
duced a  silver  tobacco-box,  at  which  he  looked  con- 
templatively for  a  moment,  opening  and  shutting  the 
lid  with  a  snap. 

"There,"  he  said,  holding  it  out  on  his  palm  ;  "I  was 
twenty  years  makin'  up  my  mind  to  buy  that  box,  an' 
to  this  day  I  can't  bring  myself  to  carry  it  all  the  time. 
Yes,  sir,  I  wanted  that  box  fer  twenty  years.  I  don't 
mean  to  say  that  I  didn't  spend  the  wuth  of  it  foolishly 
times  over  an'  agin,  but  I  couldn't  never  make  up  my 
mind  to  put  that  amount  o'  money  into  that  pertic'ler 
thing.  I  was  alwus  figurin'  that  some  day  I'd  have  a 
silver  tobacco-box,  an'  I  sometimes  think  the  reason  it 
seemed  so  extrav'gant,  an'  I  put  it  off  so  long,  was 
because  I  wanted  it  so  much.  Now  I  s'pose  you 
couldn't  understand  that,  could  ye?" 

"Yes,"  said  John,  nodding  his  head  thoughtfully,  "I 
think  I  can  understand  it  perfectly "  ;  and  indeed  it 
spoke  pages  of  David's  biography. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  David,  "I  never  spent  a  small 
amount  o'  money  but  one  other  time  an'  got  so  much 
value,  only  I  alwus  ben  kickin'  myself  to  think  I  didn't 
do  it  sooner." 

"Perhaps,"  suggested  John,  "you  enjoyed  it  all  the 
more  for  waiting  so  long." 


DAVID   HARUM  245 

"No,"  said  David,  "it  wa'n't  that.  I  dunno— 'twas 
the  feelin'  't  I'd  got  there  at  last,  I  guess.  Fur  's 
waitiu'  fer  things  is  concerned,  the'  is  such  a  thing  as 
waitin'  too  long.  Your  appetite  '11  change,  mebbe.  I 
used  to  think,  when  I  was  a  youngster,  that  if  ever  I 
got  where  I  c'd  have  all  the  custard-pie  I  c'd  eat  that'd 
be  all  't  I'd  ask  fer.  I  used  to  imagine  bein'  baked 
into  one  an'  eatin'  my  way  out.  Now' days  the's  a  good 
many  things  I'd  sooner  have  than  custard-pie — though," 
he  said  with  a  wink,  "I  gen' ally  do  eat  two  pieces  jes' 
to  please  Polly." 

John  laughed.  "What  was  the  other  thing?"  he 
asked. 

"Other  thing  I  once  bought?  "  queried  David.  "Oh, 
yes ;  it  was  the  fust  hoss  I  ever  owned.  I  give  fifteen 
dollars  fer  him,  an'  if  he  wa'n't  a  dandy  you  needn't 
pay  me  a  cent.  Crowbait  wa'n't  no  name  fer  him.  He 
was  stun-blind  on  the  off  side,  an'  couldn't  see  anythin' 
in  pertic'ler  on  the  nigh  side— couldn't  get  nigh  'nough, 
I  reckon — an'  had  'most  ev'rythin'  wrong  with  him 
that  c'd  ail  a  hoss.  But  I  thought  he  was  a  thorough- 
bred. I  was  'bout  seventeen  year  old  then,  an'  was 
helpin'  lock-tender  on  the  Erie  Canal,  an'  when  the' 
wa'n't  no  boat  goin'  through  I  put  in  most  o'  my  time 
cleanin'  that  hoss.  If  he  got  through  'th  less  'n  six 
times  a  day  he  got  off  cheap,  an'  once  I  got  up  an'  give 
him  a  little  attention  at  night.  Yes,  sir,  if  I  got  big 
money's  wuth  out  o'  that  box  it  was  mostly  a  matter  of 
feelin' ;  but  as  fur  's  that  old  plugamore  of  a  hoss  was 
concerned,  I  got  it  both  ways,  fer  I  got  my  fust  real 
start  out  of  his  old  carkiss." 

"Yes?"  said  John  encouragingly. 

"Yes,  sir,"  affirmed  David.    "I  cleaned  him  up,  an' 


246 


DAVID   HARUM 


fed  him  up,  an'  almost  got  'im  so'st  he  c'd  see  enough 
out  of  his  left  eye  to  shy  at  a  load  of  hay  close  by  j  an' 

finely   traded     him    off 
fer  another  record- 
breaker     an' 
fifteen  dollars 
to  boot." 


"Were 
you  as  en- 
thusiastic 
over  the 

next    one     as     the 
first?"  asked  John, 
laughing. 

"Wa'al,"  replied  David,  re- 
lighting  his  temporarily  aban- 
doned cigar  against  a  protest 
and  proffer  of  a  fresh  one,  "wa'al,  he  didn't  lay  holt 
on  my  affections  to  quite  the  same  extent.  I  done  my 
duty  by  him,  but  I  didn't  set  up  with  him  nights.  You 
see,"  he  added,  with  a  grin,  "I'd  got  some  used  to  bein' 
a  hoss-owner,  an'  the  edge  had  wore  off  some."  He 
smoked  for  a  minute  or  two  in  silence,  with  as  much 
apparent  relish  as  if  the  cigar  had  not  been  stale. 
"Aren't  you  going  on?  "  asked  John  at  last. 


DAVID   HARUM  247 

"Wa'al,"  he  replied,  pleased  with  his  audience,  "I 
c'd  go  on,  I  s'pose,  fast  enough  an'  fur  enough,  but  I 
don't  want  to  tire  ye  out.  I  reckon  ye  never  had 
much  to  do  with  canals  ?  " 

"No,"  said  John,  smiling,  "I  can't  say  that  I  have, 
but  I  know  something  about  the  subject  in  a  general 
way,  and  there  is  no  fear  of  your  tiring  me  out." 

"All  right,"  proceeded  David.  "As  I  was  sayin',  I 
got  another  equine  wonder  an'  fifteen  dollars  to  boot 
fer  my  ole  plug,  an'  it  wa'n't  a  great  while  before  I 
was  in  the  hoss  bus'nis  to  stay.  After  between  two  an' 
three  years  I  had  fifty  or  sixty  hosses  an'  mules,  an' 
took  all  sorts  of  to  win'  jobs.  Then  a  big  to  win'  con- 
cern quit  bus'nis,  an'  I  bought  their  hull  stock  an'  got 
my  money  back  three  four  times  over,  an'  by  the  time 
I  was  about  twenty-one  I  had  got  ahead  enough  to  quit 
the  canal  an'  all  its  works  fer  good,  an'  go  into  other 
things.  But  there  was  where  I  got  my  livin'  after  I 
run  away  f'm  Buxton  Hill.  Before  I  got  the  job  of 
lock-tendin'  I  had  made  the  trip  to  Albany  an'  back 
twice— 'walkin'  my  passage,'  as  they  used  to  call  it; 
an'  I  made  one  trip  helpin'  steer,  so't  my  canal  ex- 
perience was  putty  thorough,  take  it  all  round." 

"It  must  have  been  a  pretty  hard  life,"  remarked 
John. 

David  took  out  his  penknife  and  proceeded  to  im- 
pale his  cigar  upon  the  blade  thereof.  "No,"  he  said, 
to  John's  proffer  of  the  box,  "this  '11  last  quite  a  spell 
yet.  Wa'al,"  he  resumed  after  a  moment,  in  reply  to 
John's  remark,  "viewin'  it  all  by  itself,  it  was  a  hard 
life.  A  thing  is  hard,  though,  I  reckon,  because  it's 
harder  'n  somethin'  else,  or  you  think  so.  Most  things 
go  by  coniparin'.  I  s'pose  if  the  gen'ral  run  of  trotters 


248  DAVID   HARUM 

never  got  better  'n  three  'n'  a  half,  that  a  hoss  that  c'd 
do  it  in  three  'd  be  fast,  but  we  don't  call  'em  so  now'- 
days.  I  s'pose  if  at  that  same  age  you'd  had  to  tackle 
the  life  you'd  'a'  found  it  hard,  an'  the'  was  hard  things 
about  it  —  trampin'  all  night  in  the  rain,  fer  instance, 
sleepin'  in  barns  at  times,  an'  all  that  ;  an'  once  the 
cap'n  o'  the  boat  got  mad  at  somethin'  an'  pitched  me 
head  over  heels  into  the  canal.  It  was  about  the  close 
of  navigation,  an'  the'  was  a  scum  of  ice.  I  scrambled 
out  somehow,  but  he  wouldn't  'a'  cared  if  I'd  ben 
drownded.  He  was  an  exception,  though.  The 
canalers  was  a  rough  set  in  gen'ral,  but  they  averaged 
fer  disposition  'bout  like  the  ord'nary  run  o'  folks  ;  the' 
was  mean  ones  an'  clever  ones  ;  them  that  would  put 
upon  ye,  an'  them  that  would  treat  ye  decent.  The 
work  was  hard  an'  the  grub  wasn't  alwus  much  better  'n 
what  you—  he,  he,  he  !  —  what  you  ben  gettin'  at  the 
Eagle"  (John  was  now  by  the  way  of  rather  relishing 

jokes  on  that 


I  hadn't  ben 
raised  in  the 
lap  o'  luxury 
—  not  to  any 

consid'able  extent,  not  enough  to  stick  my  nose  up 
much.  The  men  I  worked  fer  was  rough,  an'  I  got 
my  share  of  cusses  an'  cuffs,  an'  once  in  a  while 
a  kick  to  keep  up  my  spirit  of  perseverance  ;  but, 
on  the  hull,  I  think  I  got  more  kindness  'n  I  did 
at  home  (leavin'  Polly  out)  ;  an'  as  fer  gen'ral  treat- 
ment, none  on  'em  c'd  come  up  to  my  father,  an', 
wuss  yet,  my  oldest  brother,  'Lish.  The  cap'n  that 
throwed  me  overboard  was  the  wust,  but  alongside  o' 


DAVID    HARUM  249 

'Lish  he  was  a  forty  hoss-power  angil  with  a  hull  music 
store  o'  harps ;  an'  even  my  father  c'd  'a'  given  him 
cards  an'  spades  ;  an'  as  fer  the  victuals"  —  (here  David 
dropped  his  cigar-end  and  pulled  from  his  pocket  the 
silver  tobacco-box)— "as  fer  the  victuals,"  he  repeated, 
"they  mostly  averaged  up  putty  high  after  what  I'd 
ben  used  to.  Why,  I  don't  believe  I  ever  tasted  a 
piece  of  beefsteak  or  roast  beef  in  my  life  till  after  I 
left  home.  When  we  had  meat  at  all  it  was  pork — 
boiled  pork,  fried  pork,  pigs'  liver,  an'  all  that — enough 
to  make  you  'shamed  to  look  a  pig  in  the  face ;  an'  fer 
the  rest,  potatoes,  an'  duff,  an'  johnny-cake,  an'  meal 
mush,  an'  milk-emptins  bread  that  you  c'd  smell  a  mile 
after  it  got  cold.  With  'leven  folks  on  a  small  farm 
nothin'  c'd  afford  to  be  eat  that  c'd  be  sold,  an'  ev'ry- 
thin'  that  couldn't  be  sold  had  to  be  eat.  Once  in  a 
while  the'  'd  be  pie  of  some  kind,  or  gingerbread ;  but 
with  'leven  to  eat  'em  I  didn't  ever  git  more'n  enough 
to  set  me  hankerin'." 

"I  must  say  that  I  think  I  should  have  liked  the 
canal  better,"  remarked  John  as  David  paused.  "You 
were,  at  any  rate,  more  or  less  free— that  is,  compara- 
tively, I  should  say." 

"Yes,  sir,  I  did,"  said  David,  "an'  I  never  see  the 
time,  no  matter  how  rough  things  was,  that  I  wished  I 
was  back  on  Buxton  Hill.  I  used  to  want  to  see  Polly 
putty  bad  once  in  a  while,  an'  used  to  figure  that  if  I 
ever  growed  up  to  be  a  man,  an'  had  money  enough, 
I'd  buy  her  a  new  pair  o'  shoes  an'  the  stuff  fer  a  dress, 
an'  sometimes  my  cal'lations  went  as  fur  's  a  gold  breast- 
pin ;  but  I  never  wanted  to  see  none  o'  the  rest  on  'em, 
an',  fer  that  matter,  I  never  did.  Yes,  sir,  the  old  ditch 
was  better  to  me  than  the  place  I  was  borned  in,  an', 


250  DAVID   HARUM 

as  you  say,  I  wa'n't  nobody's  slave,  an'  I  wa'n't  scairt 
to  death  the  hull  time.  Some  o'  the  men  was  rough, 
but  they  wa'n't  cruel,  as  a  rule,  an'  as  I  growed  up  a 
little  I  was  putty  well  able  to  look  out  fer  myself. 
Wa'al,  wa'al,"  (looking  at  his  watch),  "I  guess  you  must 
'a'  had  enough  o'  my  meemores  fer  one  sittin'." 

"No,  really,"  John  protested,  "don't  go  yet.  I  have 
a  little  proposal  to  make  to  you  "  j  and  he  got  up  and 
brought  a  bottle  from  the  bottom  of  the  wash-stand. 

"Wa'al,"  said  David,  "fire  it  out." 

"That  you  take  another  cigar  and  a  little  of  this," 
holding  up  the  bottle. 

"Got  any  glasses?"  asked  David,  with  practical 
mind. 

"One,  and  a  tooth-mug,"  replied  John,  laughing. 
"Glass  for  you,  tooth-mug  for  me.  Tastes  just  as 
good  out  of  a  tooth-mug." 

"Wa'al,"  said  David,  with  a  comical  air  of  yielding 
as  he  took  the  glass  and  held  it  out  to  John,  "under 
protes',  stric'ly  under  pro tes'— sooner  than  have  my 
clo'es  torn.  I  shall  tell  Polly— if  I  should  happen  to 
mention  it— that  you  threatened  me  with  vi'lence. 
Wa'al,  here's  lookin'  at  ye "  ;  which  toast  was  drunk 
with  the  solemnity  which  befitted  it. 


•\-   * 


CHAPTER   XXVI 

THE  two  men  sat  for  a  while  smoking  in  silence,  John 
taking  an  occasional  sip  of  his  grog.  Mr.  Harum  had 
swallowed  his  own  liquor  "raw/'  as  was  the  custom  in 
Homeville  and  vicinity,  following  the  potation  with  a 
mouthful  of  water.  Presently  he  settled  a  little  farther 
down  in  his  chair  and  his  face  took  on  a  smile  of  amused 
recollection. 

He  looked  up  and  gave  a  short  laugh.  "Speakiii'  of 
canals,"  he  said,  as  if  the  subject  had  only  been  casually 
mentioned,  "I  was  thinkin'  of  somethin'." 

"Yes?"  said  John. 

"E-up,"  said  David.  "That  old  ditch  f'm  Albany  to 
Buffalo  was  an  almighty  big  enterprise  in  them  days, 
an'  a  great  thing  fer  the  prosperity  of  the  State,  an'  a 
good  many  better  men  'u  I  be  walked  the  ole  tow-path 
when  they  was  young.  Yes,  sir,  that's  a  fact.  Wa'al, 
some  years  ago  I  had  somethin'  of  a  deal  on  with  a 
New  York  man  by  the  name  of  Price.  He  had  a  place 
in  Newport,  where  his  fam'ly  spent  the  summer,  an' 
where  he  went  as  much  as  he  could  git  away.  I  was 
down  to  New  York  to  see  him,  an'  we  hadn't  got 
things  quite  straightened  out,  an'  he  says  to  me,  'I'm 


252  DAVID   HARUM 

goin'  over  to  Newport,  where  my  wife  an'  fam'ly  is,  fer 
Sunday,  an'  why  can't  ye  come  with  me,'  he  says,  'an' 
stay  over  till  Monday,  an'  we  c'n  have  the  day  to  our- 
selves over  this  matter?'  'Wa'al,'  I  says,  'I'm  only 
down  here  on  this  bus'nis,  an'  as  I  left  a  hen  on,  up 
home,  I'm  willin'  to  save  the  time  'stid  of  waitiu'  here 
fer  you  to  git  back,  if  you  don'.t  think,'  I  says,  'that 
it'll  put  Mis'  Price  out  any  to  bring  home  a  stranger 
without  no  notice.' 

"'Wa'al,'  he  says,  laughin',  'I  guess  she  c'n  manage 
fer  once.'    An'  so  I  went  along.     "When  we  got  there 
the'  was  a  carriage  to  meet  us,  an'  two  men  in 
uniform,  one  to  drive  an'  one  to  open  the  door, 
an'  we  got  in  an'  rode  up  to  the  house 
—  cottige,  he  called  it,  but  it  was  built 
of  stone,  an'  wa'n't  only  about  two  sizes 
smaller  'n  the   Fifth   Avenue   Hotel. 
Some  kind  o'  doin's  was  goin'  on,  fer 
the  house  was  blazin'  with  light,  an' 
music  was  playin'. 

"'What's    on?'   says    Price   to   the 
feller  that   let   us   in. 
'"Sir  and  Lady  Somebody  's  dinin'  here  to-night,  sir,' 
says  the  man. 

"'Damn!'  says  Price,  'I  fergot  all  about  the  cussed 
thing.  Have  Mr.  Harum  showed  to  a  room,'  he  says, 
'an'  serve  dinner  in  my  office  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour, 
an'  have  somebody  show  Mr.  Harum  there  when  it's 
ready.' 

"Wa'al,"  pursued  David,  "I  was  showed  up  to  a 
room.  The'  was  lace  coverin's  on  the  bed-pillers,  an'  a 
silk-an'-lace  spread,  an'  more  dum  trinkits  an'  bottles 
an'  lookin' -glasses  'n  you  c'd  shake  a  stick  at,  an'  a 


DAVID   HARUM  253 

bath-room,  an'  Lord  knows  what ;  an'  I  washed  up,  an' 
putty  soon  one  o'  them  fellers  come  an'  showed  me 
down  to  where  Price  was  waitin'.  Wa'al,  we  had  all 
manner  o'  things  fer  supper,  an'  champagne,  an'  so  on, 
an'  after  we  got  done,  Price  says,  'I've  got  to  ask  ye  to 
excuse  me,  Harum,'  he  says.  'I've  got  to  go  an'  dress 
an'  show  up  in  the  drawin'-room,'  he  says.  'You 
smoke  your  cigar  in  here,  an'  when  ye  want  to  go  to 
yer  room  jes'  ring  the  bell.' 

"'All  right,'  I  says.  'I'm  'bout  ready  to  turn  in, 
anyway.' " 

The  narrator  paused  for  a  moment.  John  was  rather 
wondering  what  it  all  had  to  do  with  the  Erie  Canal, 
but  he  said  nothing. 

"Wa'al,  next  mornin',"  David  resumed,  "I  got  up 
an'  shaved  an'  dressed,  an'  set  round  waitin'  fer  the 
breakfust-bell  to  ring  till  nigh  on  to  half  past  nine 
o'clock.  Bom-by  the'  came  a  knock  at  the  door,  an'  I 
says,  '  Come  in,'  an'  in  come  one  o'  them  fellers.  '  Beg 
pah'din,  sir,'  he  says.  '  Did  you  ring,  sir  ? ' 

"'No,'  I  says,  'I  didn't  ring.  I  was  waitin'  to  hear 
the  bell.' 

"'Thank  ye,  sir,'  he  says.  'An'  will  ye  have  your 
breakfust  now,  sir?' 

"'Where?'  I  says. 

"'Oh,'  he  says,  kind  o'  grinnin',  'I'll  bring  it  up 
here,  sir,  d'rec'ly,'  he  says,  an'  went  off.  Putty  soon 
come  another  knock,  an'  in  come  the  feller  with  a 
silver  tray  covered  with  a  big  napkin,  an'  on  it  was  a 
couple  of  rolls  wrapped  up  in  a  napkin,  a  b'iled  egg 
done  up  in  another  napkin,  a  cup  an'  saucer,  a  little 
chiney  coffee-pot,  a  little  pitcher  of  cream,  some  loaf- 
sugar  in  a  silver  dish,  a  little  pancake  of  butter,  a  silver 


2  54 


DAVID   HARUM 


knife,  two  little  spoons  like  what  the  childern  play 
with,  a  silver  pepper- duster  an'  salt-dish,  an'  an  orange  ; 
oh,  yes,  the'  was  another  contraption— a  sort  of  a 
chiney  wine-glass.  The  feller  set  down  the  tray  an' 
says,  '  Anythin'  else  ye'd  like  to  have,  sir  ? ' 

"'No,'  I  says,  lookin'  it  over,  'I  guess  there's  enough 


to  last  me  a  day 
kind  o'  turned  his 
two.    <  Thank 
'The    second     //• 
half          past  / 


or  two ' ;  an'  with  that  he 
face  away  fer  a  second  or 
you,  sir,'  he  says, 
breakfust    is    at 
twelve,   sir,'    an' 


out  he  put.  Wa'al,"  David  continued,  "the  bread  an' 
butter  was  all  right  enough,  exceptin'  they'd  fergot 
the  salt  in  the  butter,  an'  the  coffee  was  all  right ;  but 
when  it  come  to  the  egg,  dum'd  if  I  wa'n't  putty  nigh 


DAVID   HARUM  255 

out  of  the  race ;  but  I  made  up  my  mind  it  must  be 
hard-b'iled,  an'  tackled  it  on  that  idee.  Seems  V  amuse 
ye,"  he  said,  with  a  grin,  getting  up  and  helping  him- 
self. After  swallowing  the  refreshment  and  the  palliat- 
ing mouthful  of  water,  he  resumed  his  seat  and  his 
narrative. 

"Wa'al,  sir,"  he  said,  "that,  dum'd  egg  was  about  's 
near  raw  as  it  was  when  'twas  laid,  an'  the'  was  a 
crack  in  the  shell,  an'  fust  thing  I  knowed  it  kind  o' 
c'lapsed,  an'  I  give  it  a  grab,  an'  it  squirtid  all  over  my 
pants,  an'  the  floor,  an'  on  my  coat  an'  vest,  an'  up  my 
sleeve,  an'  all  over  the  tray.  Scat  my —  !  I  looked 
gen'ally  like  an  ab'lition  orator  before  the  war.  You 
never  see  such  a  mess,"  he  added,  with  an  expression 
of  rueful  recollection.  "I  believe  that  dum'd  egg  held 
more'n  a  pint." 

John  fairly  succumbed  to  a  paroxysm  of  laughter. 

"Funny,  wa'n't  it?  "  said  David  dryly. 

"Forgive  me,"  pleaded  John,  when  he  got  his  breath. 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  said  David,  "but  it  wa'n't  the 
kind  of  emotion  it  kicked  up  in  my  breast  at  the  time. 
I  cleaned  myself  up  with  a  towel  well  's  I  could,  an' 
thought  I'd  step  out  an'  take  the  air  before  the  feller  'd 
come  back  to  git  that  tray  an'  mebbe  rub  my  nose 
in't." 

"Oh,  Lord  !•"  cried  John. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  David,  unheeding,  "I  allowed  't  I'd 
walk  round  with  my  mouth  open  a  spell,  an'  git  a  little 
air  on  my  stomech  to  last  me  till  that  second  breakfust ; 
an'  as  I  was  pokin'  round  the  grounds  I  come  to  a  sort 
of  arbor,  an'  there  was  Price,  smokin'  a  cigar. 

"'Mornin',  Harum ;  how  ye  feelin'?'  he  says,  gettin' 
up  an'  shakin'  hands ;  an'  as  we  passed  the  time  o'  day, 


256  DAVID   HARUM 

I  noticed  him  noticin'  my  coat.  You  see,  as  they  dried 
out  the  egg-spots  got  to  showin'  agin. 

"'Got  somethin'  on  yer  coat  there,'  he  says. 

"'Yes,'  I  says,  tryin'  to  scratch  it  out  with  my  finger- 
nail. 

"'Have  a  cigar?'  he  says,  handin'  one  out. 

"'Never  smoke  on  an  empty  stomech,'  I  says. 

"'What?'  he  says. 

"'Bad  fer  the  ap'tite,'  I  says,  'an'  I'm  savin'  mine  fer 
that  second  breakfust  o'  yourn.' 

"'"What ! '  he  says,  'haven't  ye  had  any  thin'  to  eat? ' 
An'  then  I  told  him  what  I  ben  tellin'  you.  Wa'al,  sir, 
fust  he  looked  kind  o'  mad  an'  disgusted,  an'  then  he 
laughed  till  I  thought  he'd  bust,  an'  when  he  quit  he 
says,  '  Excuse  me,  Harum ;  it's  too  damned  bad,  but  I 
couldn't  help  laughin'  to  save  my  soul.  An'  it's  all  my 
fault,  too,'  he  says.  'I  intended  to  have  ye  take  yer 
breakfust  with  me,  but  somethin'  happened  last  night 
to  upset  me,  an'  I  woke  with  it  on  my  mind,  an'  I  fer- 
got.  Now  you  jes'  come  right  into  the  house,  an'  I'll 
have  somethin'  got  fer  ye  that'll  stay  your  stomech 
better  'n  air,'  he  says. 

"'No,'  I  says,  'I've  made  trouble  enough  fer  one  day, 
I  guess ' ;  an'  I  wouldn't  go,  though  he  urged  me  agin 
an'  agin.  'Ye  don't  fall  in  with  the  customs  of  this 
region  ! '  I  says  to  him. 

'"Not  in  that  pertic'ler,  at  any  rate,'  he  says.  'It's 
one  o'  the  fool  notions  that  my  wife  an'  the  girls 
brought  home  f 'm  Eurup.  I  have  a  good  solid  meal 
in  the  mornin',  same  as  I  alwus  did,'  he  says." 

Mr.  Harum  stopped  talking  to  relight  his  cigar,  and 
after  a  puff  or  two,  "When  I  started  out,"  he  said,  "I 
hadn't  no  notion  of  goiii'  into  all  the  highways  an'  by- 


DAVID   HARUM  257 

ways,  but  when  I  git  begun  one  thing's  apt  to  lead  to 
another,  an'  ye  never  c'n  tell  jest  where  I  will  fetch  up. 
Now~  I  started  off  to  tell  somethin'  in  about  two  words, 
an'  I'm  putty  near  as  fur  off  as  when  I  begun." 

"Well,"  said  John,  "it's  Saturday  night,  and  the 
longer  your  story  is  the  better  I  shall  like  it.  I  hope 
the  second  breakfast  was  more  of  a  success  than  the 
first  one,"  he  added,  with  a  laugh. 

"I  managed  to  average  up  on  the  two  meals,  I 
guess,"  David  remarked.  "Wa'al,"  he  resumed,  "Price 
an'  I  set  round  talkin'  bus'nis  an'  things  till  about 
twelve  or  a  little  after,  mebbe,  an'  then  he  turned  to 
me  an'  kind  o'  looked  me  over,  an'  says,  'You  an'  me 
is  about  of  a  build,  an'  if  you  say  so  I'll  send  one  of  my 
coats  an'  vests  up  to  your  room,  an'  have  the  man  take 
yours  an'  clean  'em.' 

'"I  guess  the'  is  ruther  more  egg  showin'  than  the 
law  allows,'  I  says,  'an'  mebbe  that  'd  be  a  good  idee ; 
but  the  pants  caught  it  the  wust,'  I  says. 

"'Mine'll  fit  ye,'  he  says. 

"'What'll  your  wife  say  to  seein'  me  airifyin'  round 
in  your  git-up?'  I  says.  He  gin  me  a  funny  kind  of 
look.  l  My  wife  ? '  he  says.  ( Lord,  she  don't  know 
more  about  my  clo'es  'n  you  do.'  That  struck  me  as 
bein'  ruther  curious,"  remarked  David.  "Wouldn't  it 
you?" 

"Very,"  replied  John  gravely. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  David.  "Wa'al,  when  we  went  into 
the  eatin'-room,  the  table  was  full,  mostly  young  folks, 
chatterin'  an'  laughin'.  Price  int'duced  me  to  his  wife, 
an'  I  set  down  by  him  at  the  other  end  of  the  table. 
The'  wa'n't  nothin'  wuth  mentionin' ;  nobody  paid  any 
attention  to  me?  'cept  now  an'  then  a  word  from  Price, 


258  DAVID   HARUM 

an'  I  wa'n't  fer  talking  anyway— I  c'd  have  eat  a  raw 
dog.  After  breakfust,  as  they  called  it,  Price  an'  I 
went  out  onto  the  verandy  an'  had  some  coffee,  an' 
smoked  an'  talked  fer  an  hour  or  so,  an'  then  he  got 
up  an'  excused  himself  to  write  a  letter.  l  Ye  may  like 
to  look  at  the  papers  awhile,'  he  says.  'I've  ordered 
the  bosses  at  five,  an',  if  ye  like,  I'll  show  you  round  a 
little.' 

"'Won't  yer  wife  be  wan  tin'  'em?'  I  says. 

"'No,  I  guess  she'll  git  along,'  he  says,  kind  o' 
smilin'. 

"'All  right/  I  says,  'don't  mind  me.'  An'  so  at  five 
up  come  the  hosses  an'  the  two  fellers  in  uniform  an' 
all.  I  was  lookin'  the  hosses  over  when  Price  come 
out.  '  Wa'al,  what  do  ye  think  of  'em? '  he  says. 

"'Likely  pair,'  I  says,  goin'  over  an'  examinin'  the 
nigh  one's  feet  an'  legs.  'Sore  forr'ed? '  I  says,  lookiii' 
up  at  the  driver. 

"'A  trifle,  sir,'  he  says,  touchin'  his  hat. 

'"What's  that?'  says  Price,  comin'  up  an'  examinin' 
the  critter's  face  an'  head.  'I  don't  see  anythin'  the 
matter  with  his  forehead,'  he  says.  I  looked  up  an' 
give  the  driver  a  wink,"  said  David,  with  a  chuckle, 

"an'  he  give  kind 
ofachokin'gasp, 
but  in  a  second 
was  lookin'  as 
solemn  as  ever. 
"I  can't  tell  ye 
jes'  where  we  went,"  the  narrator  proceeded,  "but 
anyway  it  was  where  all  the  nabobs  turned  out, 
an'  I  seen  more  style  an'  git-up  in  them  two  hours 
'n  I  ever  see  in  my  life,  I  reckon.  The'  didn't  ap- 


DAVID    HARUM  259 

pear  to  be  no  one  we  run  across  that,  accordin'  to 
Price's  tell,  was  wuth  under  five  million,  though  we 
may  'a'  passed  one  without  his  noticin'  ;  an'  the'  was  a 
good  many  that  run  to  fifteen  an'  twenty  an'  over,  an' 
most  on  'em,  it  appeared,  was  f'm  New  York.  Wa'al, 
finely  we  got  back  to  the  house  a  little  'fore  seven.  On 
the  way  back  Price  says,  'The'  are  goin'  to  be  three 
four  people  to  dinner  to-night  in  a  quiet  way,  an'  the' 
ain't  no  reason  why  you  shouldn't  stay  dressed  jest  as 
you  are  ;  but  if  you  would  feel  like  puttin'  on  evenin' 
clo'es '  (that's  what  he  called  'em),  '  why,  I've  got  an 
extry  suit  that'll  fit  ye  to  a  T, '  he  says. 

"'No,'  I  says,  'I  guess  I  better  not.  I  reckon  I'd 
better  git  my  grip  an'  go  to  the  hotel.  I  sh'd  be  ruther 
bashful  to  wear  your  swallertail,  an'  all  them  folks'll  be 
strangers,'  I  says.  But  he  insisted  on't  that  I  sh'd  come 
to  dinner  anyway,  an'  finely  I  gin  in,  an'  thinkin'  I 
might  's  well  go  the  hull  hog,  I  allowed  I'd  wear  his 
clo'es.  '  But  if  I  do  anythin'  or  say  anythin'  't  ye  don't 
like,'  says  I, '  don't  say  I  didn't  warn  ye.'  What  would 
you  'a'  done?"  Mr.  Harum  asked. 

"Worn  the  clothes  without  the  slightest  hesitation," 
replied  John.  "Nobody  gave  your  costume  a  thought." 

"They  didn't  appear  to,  fer  a  fact,"  said  David,  "an' 
I  didn't  either,  after  I'd  slipped  up  once  or  twice  on 
the  matter  of  pockets.  The  same  feller  brought  'em 
up  to  me  that  fetched  the  stuff  in  the  mornin' ;  an'  the 
rig  was  complete— coat,  vest,  pants,  shirt,  white  neck- 
tie, an',  by  gum !  shoes  an'  silk  socks,  an',  sir,  scat 
my —  !  the  hull  outfit  fitted  me  as  if  it  was  made  fer 
me.  'Shell  I  wait  on  ye,  sir?'  says  the  man.  'No,'  I 
says,  'I  guess  I  c'n  git  into  the  things ;  but  mebbe  you 
might  come  up  in  'bout  quarter  of  an  hour  an'  put  on 

18 


26o  DAVID   HARUM 

the  finishin'  touches;  an'  here/  I  says,  'I  guess  that 
brand  of  eggs  ye  give  me  this  mornin'  's  wuth  about 
two  dollars  apiece.' 

"'Thank  ye,  sir,'  he  says,  grinnin'.  'I'd  like  to  fur- 
nish 'em  right  along  at  that  rate,  sir,  an'  I'll  be  up  as 
you  say,  sir.' " 

"You  found  the  way  to  his  heart,"  said  John,  smil- 
ing. 

"My  experience  is,"  said  David  dryly,  "that  most 
men's  hearts  is  located  ruther  closter  to  their  britches 
pockets  than  they  are  to  their  breast  pockets." 

"I'm  afraid  that's  so,"  said  John. 

"But  this  feller,"  Mr.  Harum  continued,  "was  a 
putty  decent  kind  of  a  chap.  He  come  up  after  I'd 
got  into  my  togs,  an'  pulled  me  here,  an'  pulled  me 
there,  an'  fixed  my  necktie,  an'  hitched  me  in  gen'ral 
so'st  I  wa'n't  neither  too  tight  nor  too  free,  an'  when 
he  got  through,  'Ye'll  do  now,  sir,'  he  says. 

"'Think  I  will?'  says  I. 

"'Couldn't  nobody  look  more  fit,  sir,'  he  says  ;  an'  I'm 
dum'd,"  said  David,  with  an  assertive  nod,  "when  I 
looked  at  myself  in  the  lookin' -glass  I  scurcely  knowed 
myself;  an'  "  (with  a  confidential  lowering  of  the  voice) 
"when  I  got  back  to  New  York  the  very  fust  hard  work 
I  done  was  to  go  an'  buy  the  hull  rig-out — an',"  he 
added,  with  a  grin,  "strange  as  it  may  appear,  it  ain't 
wore  out  yit." 


You  look  f'm  behind  like  a  red-headed  snappin'  bug." 


CHAPTER   XXVII 

"  PEOPLE  don't  dress  for  dinner  in  Homeville,  as  a  rule, 
then,"  John  said,  smiling. 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Harum  ;  "when  they  dress  fer  break- 
fust  that  does  'em  fer  all  three  meals.  I've  wore  them 
things  two  three  times  when  I've  ben  down  to  the  city, 
but  I  never  had  'em  on  but  once  up  here." 

"No!"  said  John. 

"No,"  said  David.  "I  put  'em  on  once  to  show  to 
Polly  how  city  folks  dressed— he,  he,  he,  he  !— an' 
when  I  come  into  the  room  she  set  forwud  on  her 
chair  an'  stared  at  me  over  her  specs.  '"What  on 
airth  ! '  she  says. 

"'I  bought  these  clo'es,'  I  says,  'to  wear  when  bein' 
ent'tained  by  the  fust  fam'lies.  How  do  I  look  ! '  I  says. 

"'Turn  round,'  she  says.  'Ye  look  f'm  behind,'  she 
says,  'like  a  red-headed  snappin'-bug,  an'  in  front,'  she 
says,  as  I  turned  agin, '  like  a  reg'lar  slinkum.  I'll  bet,' 
she  says,  'that  ye  hain't  thro  wed  away  less  'n  twenty 
dollars  on  that  foolishniss.'  Polly's  a  very  conserv'tive 
person,"  remarked  her  brother,  "an'  don't  never  im- 
agine a  vain  thing,  as  the  Bible  says,  not  when  she 
knows  it,  an'  I  thought  it  wa'n't  wuth  while  to  argue 
the  p'int  with  her." 

John  laughed,  and  said,  "Do  you  recall  that  memor- 
able interview  between  the  governors  of  the  two 
Carolina*  ?" 

"Nothin'  in  the  historical  lit'rature  of  our  great  an' 
glorious  country,"  replied  Mr.  Harum  reverently, 
"sticks  closter  to  my  mind — like  a  bur  to  a  cow's 


262  DAVID   HARUM 

tail,"  he  added,  by  way  of  illustration.  "Thank  you, 
jest  a  mouthful." 

"How  about  the  dinner?"  John  asked  after  a  little 
interlude.  "Was  it  pleasant?" 

"Fust-rate,"  declared  David.  "The  young  folks  was 
out  somewhere  else,  all  but  one  o'  Price's  girls.  The' 
was  twelve  at  the  table,  all  told.  I  was  int'duced  to 
all  of  'em  in  the  parlor,  an'  putty  soon  in  come  one  of 
the  fellers  an'  said  somethin'  to  Mis'  Price  that  meant 
dinner  was  ready,  an'  the  girl  come  up  to  me  an'  took 
holt  of  my  arm.  l  You're  goin'  to  take  me  out,'  she 
says,  an'  we  formed  a  procession  an'  marched  out  to 
the  dinin'-room.  'You're  to  sit  by  mammer,'  she  says, 
showiii'  me,  an'  there  was  my  name  on  a  card,  sure 
enough.  Wa'al,  sir,  that  table  was  a  show  !  I  couldn't 
begin  to  describe  it  to  ye.  The'  was  a  hull  flower- 
garden  in  the  middle,  an'  a  worked  table-cloth  ;  four 
five  glasses  of  all  colors  an'  sizes  at  ev'ry  plate,  an'  a 
nosegay,  an'  five  six  diff'rent  forks  an'  a  lot  o'  knives, 
though,  fer  that  matter,"  remarked  the  speaker,  "the' 
wa'n't  but  one  knife  in  the  lot  that  amounted  to  any- 
thin',  the  rest  on  'em  wouldn't  hold  nothin' ;  an'  the' 
was  three  four  sort  o'  chiney  slates  with  what  they  call 
— the — you  'n'  me — ' 

"Menu,"  suggested  John. 

"I  guess  that's  it,"  said  David,  "but  that  wa'n't  the 
way  it  was  spelt.  Wa'al,  I  set  down  an'  tucked  my 
napkin  into  my  neck,  an'  though  I  noticed  none  o'  the 
rest  on  'em  seemed  to  care,  I  allowed  that  'twa'u't  my 
shirt,  an'  mebbe  Price  might  want  to  wear  it  agin 
'fore  'twas  washed." 

John  put  his  handkerchief  over  his  face  and  coughed 
violently. 


DAVID   HARUM  263 

David  looked  at  him  sharply.  "Subject  to  them 
spells?"  he  asked. 

"Sometimes,"  said  John,  when  he  recovered  his  voice, 
and  then,  with  as  clear  an  expression  of  innocence  as 
he  could  command,  but  somewhat  irrelevantly,  asked, 
"How  did  you  get  on  with  Mrs.  Price?" 

"Oh,"  said  David,  "nicer  'n  a  cotton  hat.  She  ap- 
peared to  be  a  quiet  sort  of  woman  that  might  'a' 
lived  anywhere,  but  she  was 
dressed  to  kill — an'  so 
was  the  rest  on  'em, 
fer  that  matter," 
he  remarked, 
with  a  laugh. 
"I  tried  to  tell 
Polly  about 'em 
afterwuds,  an' 
— he,  he,  he  !— ' 
she  shut  me  up 
mighty  quick, 
an'  I  thought 
myself  at  the  time, 
thinks  I,  'It's  a  ^ 
good  thing  it's 

warm  weather,'  I  says  to  myself.     Oh,  yes, 
Mis'  Price  made   me  feel  quite  to  home, 
but  I  didn't  talk  much  the  fust  part  of  dinner,  an'  I 
s'pose  she  was  more  or  less  took  up  with  havin'  so  many 
folks  at  table  ;  but  finely  she  says  to  me,  ( Mr.  Price  was 
so  annoyed  about  your  breakfust,  Mr.  Harum.' 

"'Was  he?'  I  says.  'I  was  afraid  you'd  be  the  one 
that  'd  be  vexed  at  me.' 

"'Vexed  with  you?     I  don't  understand,'  she  says. 


264  DAVID   HARUM 

""Bout  the  napkin  I  sp'iled,'  I  says.  'Mebbe  not 
actially  sp'iled,'  1  says,  'but  it'll  have  to  go  into  the 
wash  'fore  it  c'n  be  used  agin.' 

"She  kind  o'  smiled,  an'  says,  'Really,  Mr.  Harum,  I 
don't  know  what  you  are  talkin'  about.' 

"'Hain't  nobody  told  ye!'  I  says.  'Well,  if  they 
hain't  they  will,  an'  I  may  's  well  make  a  clean  breast 
on't.  I'm  awful  sorry,'  I  says,  'but  this  mornin'  when 
I  come  to  the  egg  I  didn't  see  no  way  to  eat  it  'cept  to 
peel  it,  an'  fust  I  knew  it  kind  of  exploded  and  daubed 
ev'rythiii'  all  over  creation.  Yes'm,'  I  says,  'it  went 
off,  's  ye  might  say,  like  old  Elder  Maybee's  powder.' 
I  guess,"  said  David,  "that  I  must  'a'  ben  talkin'  ruther 
louder  'n  I  thought,  fer  I  looked  up  an'  noticed  that 
putty  much  ev'ry  one  on  'em  was  lookin'  our  way  an' 
kind  o'  laughin',  an'  Price  in  pertic'ler  was  grinnin' 
straight  at  me. 

"'What's  that,'  he  says,  'about  Elder  Maybee's 
powder?' 

"'Oh,  nothin'  much,'  I  says;  'jest  a  little  supprise- 
party  the  elder  had  up  to  his  house.' 

'"Tell  us  about  it,'  says  Price. 

"'Oh,  yes,  do  tell  us  about  it,'  says  Mis'  Price. 

" '  Wa'al,'  I  says,  '  the'  ain't  much  to  it  in  the  way  of 
a  story,  but  seein'  dinner  must  be  'most  through,'  I 
says,  'I'll  tell  ye  all  the'  was  of  it.  The  elder  had  a 
small  farm  'bout  two  miles  out  of  the  village,'  I  says, 
'an'  he  was  great  on  raisin'  chickins  an'  turkeys.  He 
was  a  slow,  putterin'  kind  of  an  ole  foozle,  but  on  the 
hull  a  putty  decent  citizen.  Wa'al,'  I  says,  'one  year 
when  the  poultry  was  comin'  along,  a  family  o'  skunks 
moved  onto  the  premises,  an'  done  so  well  that  putty 
soon,  as  the  elder  said,  it  seemed  to  him  that  it  was 


DAVID  HARUM 


265 


comin'  to  be  a  ch'ice  between  the  chickin  bus'nis  an' 

the  skunk  bus'nis,  an'  though  he  said  he'd  heard  the' 

was  money  in  it  if  it  was  done  on  a  big 

enough  scale,  he  hadn't  ben  edicated  to  it, 

he  said,  and  didn't  take  to  it  anyways.     So,' 

I  says,  'he  scratched  round  an'  got  a  lot  o' 

traps  an'  set  'em,  an'  the  very  next  niornin' 

he  went  out  an'  found  he'd  ketched  an  ole 

he-one—president  of  the  comp'ny.     So  he 

went  to  git  his  gun  to  shoot  the  critter,  an'  found  he 

hadn't  got  no  powder.     The  boys  had  used  it  all  up  on 

woodchucks,  an'  the'  wa'n't  nothin'  fer  it  but  to  git 

some  more  down  to  the  village,  an'  as  he  had  some  more 

things  to  git,  he  hitched  up  'long  in  the  forenoon  an' 

drove  down.' 

"At  this,"  said  David,  "one  of  the  ladies,  wife  to  the 
judge,  name  o'  Pomfort,  spoke  up  an'  says, 
'  Did  he  leave  that  poor  creature  to  suffer 
all  that  time  ?    Couldn't  it  have  been  put 
out  of  its  misery  some  other  way  1 ' 

"'Wa'al,  marm,'  I  says,  'I  never  hap- 
pened to  know  but  one  feller  that  set  out 
to  kill  one  o'  them  things  with  a  club,  an' 
he  put  in  most  o'  his  time  fer  a  week  or  two  up  in  the 
woods  hotin'  himself,'   I  says.     'He  didn't  mingle  in 

gen'ral  soci'ty,  an'  in 
fact,'  I  says,  'he  had 
the  hull  road  to  him- 
self,   as    ye     might 
-.  say,     fer     a     putty 
consid'able    spell.' " 
John  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed.     "Did  she 
say  any  more  ? "  he  asked. 


266  DAVID   HARUM 

"No/'  said  David,  with  a  chuckle.  "All  the  men  set 
up  a  great  laugh,  an'  she  colored  up  in  a  kind  of  huff 
at  fust,  an'  then  she  begun  to  laugh  too,  an'  then  one  o' 
the  waiter  fellers  put  somethin'  down  in  front  of  me 
an'  I  went  eatin'  agin.  But  putty  soon  Price  he  says, 
'Come,'  he  says,  'Harum,  ain't  ye  goin'  on?  How 
about  that  powder1? ' 

"'Wa'al,'  I  says,  'mebbe  we  had  ought  to  put  that 
critter  out  of  his  misery.  The  elder  went  down  an' 
bought  a  pound  o'  powder,  an'  had  it  done  up  in  a 
brown-paper  bundle,  an'  put  it  with  his  other  stuff  in 
the  bottom  of  his  dem'crat  wagin.  But  it  come  on  to 
rain  some  while  he  was  ridin'  back,  an'  the  stuff  got 
more  or  less  wet,  an'  so  when  he  got  home  he  spread 
it  out  in  a  dish-pan  an'  put  it  under  the  kitchin  stove 
to  dry  |  an'  thinkin'  that  it  wa'n't  dryin'  fast  enough,  I 
s'pose,  made  out  to  assist  Nature,  as  the  say  in'  is,  by 
stirrin'  on't  up  with  the  kitchin  poker.  Wa'al,'  I  says, 
'I  don't  jes'  know  how  it  happened,  an'  the  elder  cer- 
t'inly  didn't,  fer  after  they'd  got  him  untangled  f'm 

under  what 
was  left  of 
the  woodshed 
an'  the  kitch- 
in stove,  an' 
tied  him  up 
in  cotton  bat- 
tin',  an'  set  his  leg,  an'  put  out  the  house,  an'  a  few 
things  like  that,  bom-by  he  come  round  a  little,  an'  the 
fust  thing  he  says  was,  "Wa'al,  wa'al,  wa'al ! "  "What 
is  it,  pa?"  says  Mis'  Maybee,  bendin'  down  over  him. 
"That  peowder,"  he  says,  in  almost  no  voice,  "that 
peowder  !  I  was  jest  stirrin'  on't  a  little,  an'  it  went 


DAVID   HARUM 


267 


o-f-f—  it    went    o-/-/,"    he    says, 

minute!"     An'  that,'  I  says  to  Mis'  Price,  'was  what 

that  egg  done.' 

"'We'll  have  to  forgive  you  that  egg,'  she  says, 
laughin'  like  ev'rything,  'for  Elder  May  bee's  sake'; 
an'  in  fact,"  said  David, 
"they  all  laughed  except 
one  feller.     He 
was  an  English- 
man—I     fergit 
his  name.  When 
I   got   through  .# 
he  looked  kind 
o'  puzzled,  an' 
says"  (Mr.  Ha- 
rum      imitated 
his  style  as  well   "" 
as   he    could),   "'But   ra'ally,    Mr. 
Harum,  you  kneow  that's  the  way 
powdah  always  geoes  off,  don't  you 
kneow.'      An'    then,"    said    David, 
"they  laughed   harder  'n  ever,   an' 
Englishman  got  redder  'n   a  beet." 

"What   did   you    say?"    asked    John. 

"Nothin',"  said  David.  "They  was  all  laughin'  so't 
I  couldn't  git  in  a  word,  an'  then  the  waiter  brought 
me  another  plateful  of  somethin'.  Scat  my —  ! "  he 
exclaimed,  "I  thought  that  dinner  'd  go  on  till  king- 
dom come.  An'  wine  !  Wa'al !  I  begun  to  feel  some- 
thin'  like  the  old  feller  did  that  swallered  a  full 
tumbler  of  white  whisky,  thinkin'  it  was  water.  The 
old  feller  was  temp'rence,  an'  the  boys  put  up  a  job  on 
him  one  hot  day  at  gen'ral  trainin'.  Somebody  ast  him 


268 


DAVID   HARUM 


afterwuds  how  it  made  him  feel,  an'  he  said  he  felt  as 
if  he  was  sittin'  straddle  the  meetin' -house,  an'  ev'ry 
shingle  was  a  Jew's-harp.  So  I  kep'  mum  fer  a  while. 
But  jes'  before  we  finely  got  through,  an'  I  hadn't  said 
nothin'  fer  a  spell,  Mis'  Price  turned  to  me  an'  says, 
'  Did  you  have  a  pleasant  drive  this  afternoon  ? ' 

"'Yes'm,'  I  says,  'I  seen  the  hull  show,  putty  much. 
I  guess  poor  folks  must  be  't  a  premium  round  here. 
I  reckon,'  I  says,  ( that  if  \  they'd  club  together, 
the  folks  your  husband  „*.  \  p'intedout  to  me  to- 
day could  almost 
satisfy  the  re- 
quirements of  the 
'Merican  Soci'ty 
fer  For'u  Mis- 
sions.' Mis'  Price 
laughed,  an' 
looked  over  at 
her  husband. 
<Yes,'  says 
Price,  <I  told 
Mr.  Harum 
about  some 
of  the  people 
we  saw  this 
afternoon,  an'  I 
must  say  he 
didn't  appear  to  be  as  much  impressed  as  I  thought  he 
would.  How's  that,  Harum  ? '  he  says  to  me. 

"'Wa'al,'  says  I,  'I  was  thinkiu'  't  I'd  like  to  bet 
yoli  two  dollars  to  a  last  year's  bird's  nest,'  I  says, '  that 
if  all  them  fellers  we  seen  this  afternoon,  that  air  over 
fifty,  c'd  be  got  together,  an'  some  one  was  suddinly  to 


DAVID   HARUM  269 

holler  "LOW  BRIDGE  ! "  that  nineteen  out  o'  twenty  'd 
duck  their  heads. ,'  " 

"And  then?"  queried  John. 

"Wa'al,"  said  David,  "all  on  'em  laughed  some,  but 
Price— he  jes'  lay  back  an'  roared ;  and  I  found  out 
afterwuds,"  added  David,  "that  ev'ry  man  at  the  table, 
except  the  Englishman,  know'd  what  'low  bridge' 
meant  from  actial  experience.  Wa'al,  scat  my—!" 
he  exclaimed,  as  he  looked  at  his  watch,  "it  ain't  hardly 
wuth  while  undressin',"  and  started  for  the  door.  As 
he  was  half-way  through  it,  he  turned  and  said,  "Say,  I 
s'pose  you'd  'a'  known  what  to  do  with  that  egg,"  but 
he  did  not  wait  for  a  reply. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

IT  must  not  be  understood  that  the  Harums,  Larrabees, 
Robinsons,  Elrights,  and  sundry  who  have  thus  far  been 
mentioned,  represented  the  only  types  in  the  prosper- 
ous and  enterprising  village  of  Homeville,  and  David 
perhaps  somewhat  magnified  the  one-time  importance 
of  the  Cullom  family,  although  he  was  speaking  of  a 
period  some  forty  years  earlier.  Be  that  as  it  may, 
there  were  now  a  good  many  families,  most  of  them 
descendants  of  early  settlers,  who  lived  in  good  and 
even  fine  houses,  and  were  people  of  refinement  and 
considerable  wealth.  These  constituted  a  coterie  of 
their  own,  though  they  were  on  terms  of  acquaintance 
and  comity  with  the  "village  people,"  as  they  desig- 
nated the  rank  and  file  of  the  Homeville  population. 
To  these  houses  came  in  the  summer  sons  and  daugh- 
ters, nieces,  nephews,  and  grandchildren,  and  at  the 
period  of  which  I  am  writing  there  had  been  built  on 
the  shore  of  the  lake,  or  in  its  vicinity,  a  number  of 
handsome  and  stately  residences  by  people  who  had 
been  attracted  by  the  beauty  of  the  situation  and  the 
salubrity  of  the  summer  climate.  And  so,  for  some 
months  in  the  pleasant  season,  the  village  was  enlivened 
by  a  concourse  of  visitors,  who  brought  with  them  urban 
customs,  costumes,  and  equipages,  and  gave  a  good  deal 
of  life  and  color  to  the  village  streets.  Then  did  Home- 
ville put  its  best  foot  forward  and  money  in  its  pouch. 
"I  ain't  what  ye  might  call  an  old  residenter,"  said 
David,  "though  I  was  part  raised  on  Buxton  Hill,  an'  I 
ain't  so  well  'quainted  with  the  nabobs ;  but  Polly's 


DAVID   HARUM  271 

lived  in  the  village  ever  sence  she  got  married,  an' 
knows  their  fam'ly  hist'ry,  dam,  an'  sire,  an'  pedigree 
gen' ally.  Of  course,"  he  remarked,  "I  know  all  the 
men  folks,  an'  they  know  me,  but  I  never  ben  into  none 
o'  their  houses  except  now  an'  then  on  a  matter  of 
bus'nis ;  an'  I  guess,"  he  said  with  a  laugh,  "that  Polly  'd 
allow  't  she  don't  spend  all  her  time  in  that  circle. 
Still,"  he  added,  "they  all  know  her,  an'  ev'ry  little 
while  some  o'  the  women  folks'll  come  in  an'  see  her. 
She's  putty  popular,  Polly  is,"  he  concluded. 

"I  should  think  so,  indeed,"  remarked  John. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  David,  "  the's  worse  folks  'n  Polly 
Bixbee,  if  she  don't  put  on  no  style  ;  an'  the  fact  is  that 
some  of  the  folks  that  lives  here  the  year  round,  an' 
always  have,  an'  call  the  rest  on  us  'village  people,'  'r' 
jest  as  country fied  in  their  way  's  me  an'  Polly  is  in 
ourn — only  they  don't  know  it.  'Bout  the  only  diff - 
rence  is  the  way  they  talk  an'  live."  John  looked  at 
Mr.  Harum  in  some  doubt  as  to  the  seriousness  of  the 
last  remark. 

"Go  to  the  'Piscopal  church,  an'  have  what  they  call 
dinner  at  six  o'clock,"  said  David.  "Now,  there's  the 
The'dore  Verjooses,"  he  continued ;  "the  'rig'nal  Ver- 
joos  come  an'  settled  here  sometime  in  the  thirties,  I 
reckon.  He  was  some  kind  of  a  Dutchman,  I  guess  " 
("Dutchman"  was  Mr.  Harum's  generic  name  for  all 
people  native  to  the  Continent  of  Europe)  ;  "but  he 
had  some  money,  an'  bought  land  an'  morgiges,  an'  so 
on,  an'  havin'  money— money  was  awful  source  in  them 
early  days — made  more  ;  never  spent  anythin'  to  speak 
of,  an'  died  pinchin'  the  'rig'nal  cent  he  started  in  with." 

"He  was  the  father  of  Mr.  Verjoos,  the  other  banker 
here,  I  suppose1?"  said  John. 


272  DAVID   HARUM 

"Yes,"  said  David,  "the'  was  two  boys  an'  a  sister. 
The  oldest  son,  Alferd,  went  into  the  law  an'  done 
bus'nis  in  Albany,  an'  afterwnds  moved  to  New  York  j 
but  he's  always  kept  up  the  old  place  here.  The  old 
man  left  what  was  a  good  deal  o'  propity  fer  them  days, 
an'  Alf  he  kept  his  share  an'  made  more.  He  was  in 
the  Assembly  two  three  terms,  an'  afterwuds  member 
of  Congress,  an'  they  do  say,"  remarked  Mr.  Harum, 
with  a  wink,  "that  he  never  lost  no  money  by  his  poli- 
tics. On  the  other  hand,  The'dore  made  more  or  less 
of  a  muddle  on't,  an'  'mongst  'em  they  set  him  up  in 
the  bankiu'  bus'nis.  I  say  'them,'  because  the  Ver- 
jooses,  an'  the  Rogerses,  an'  the  Swaynes,  an'  a  lot  of 
'em,  is  all  more  or  less  related  to  each  other  ;  but  Alf  s 
reely  the  one  at  the  bottom  on't,  an'  after  The'd  lost 
most  of  his  money  it  was  the  easiest  way  to  kind  o'  keep 
him  on  his  legs." 

"He  seems  a  good-natured,  easy-going  sort  of  person," 
said  John  by  way  of  comment,  and,  truth  to  say,  not 
very  much  interested. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  David  rather  contemptuously,  "ye 
could  drive  him  with  a  tow-string.  He  don't  know 
enough  to  run  away.  But  what  I  was  gettin'  at  was 
this :  he  an'  his  wife — he  married  one  of  the  Tena- 
kers — has  lived  right  here  fer  the  Lord  knows  how 
long ;  born  an'  brought  up  here,  both  on  'em,  an' 
somehow  we're  'village  people'  an'  they  ain't,  that's 
all." 

"Kather  a  fine  distinction,"  remarked  his  hearer, 
smiling. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  David.  "Now,  there's  old  maid 
Allis,  relative  of  the  Rogerses,  lives  all  alone  down  on 
Clark  Street  in  an  old  house  that  hain't  had  a  coat  o' 


DAVID   HARUM  273 

paint  or  a  new  shingle  sence  the  three  Thayers  was 
hung,  an'  she  talks  about  the  folks  next  door,  both  sides, 
that  she's  knowed  alwus,  as  'village  people,'  and  I  don't 
believe,"  asserted  the  speaker,  "she  was  ever  away  f  m 
Homeville  two  weeks  in  the  hull  course  of  her  life. 
She's  a  putty  decent  sort  of  a  woman,  too,"  Mr.  Harum 
admitted.  "If  the'  was  a  death  in  the  house  she'd  go 
in  an'  help,  but  she  wouldn't  never  think  of  askin'  one 
on  'em  to  tea." 

"I  suppose  you  have  heard  it  said,"  remarked  John, 
laughing,  "that  it  takes  all  sorts  of  people  to  make  a 
world." 

"I  think  I  hev  heard  a  rumor  to  that  effect,"  said 
David,  "an'  I  guess  the'  's  about  as  much  human  nature 
in  some  folks  as  the'  is  in  others,  if  not  more." 

"And  I  don't  fancy  that  it  makes  very  much  differ- 
ence to  you,"  said  John,  "whether  the  Verjooses  or 
Miss  Allis  call  you  ( village  people'  or  not." 

"Don't  cut  no  figger  at  all,"  declared  Mr.  Harum. 
"Polly  'n'  I  are  too  old  to  set  up  fer  shapes  even  if  we 
wanted  to.  A  good  fair  road-gait's  good  enough  fer 
me ;  three  square  meals,  a  small  portion  of  the  'filthy 
weed,'  as  it's  called  in  po'try,  a  hoss  'r  two,  a  ten-dollar 
note  where  ye  c'n  lay  yer  hand  on't,  an'  once  in  a  while, 
when  yer  conscience  pricks  ye,  a  little  somethin'  to  per- 
mote  the  cause  o'  temp'rence,  an'  make  the  inwurd 
moniter  quit  jerkin'  the  reins— wa'al,  I  guess  I  c'n  git 
along,  heh  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  John,  by  way  of  making  some  rejoinder, 
"if  one  has  all  one  needs  it  is  enough." 

"Wa'al,  yes,"  observed  the  philosopher,  "that's  so, 
as  ye  might  say,  up  to  a  certain  pHnt,  an'  in  some  ways. 
I  s'pose  a  feller  could  git  along,  but  at  the  same  time 


274  DAVID   HARUM 

I've  noticed  that,  gen'ally  speakin',  a  leetle  too  big  's 
about  the  right  size." 

"I  am  told,"  said  John,  after  a  pause  in  which  the 
conversation  seemed  to  be  dying  out  for  lack  of  fuel, 
and  apropos  of  nothing  in  particular,  "that  Homeville 
is  quite  a  summer  resort." 

"Quite  a  consid'able,"  responded  Mr.  Harum.  "It 
has  ben  to  some  extent  fer  a  good  many  years,  an'  it's 
gettin'  more  an'  more  so  all  the  time,  only  diff  rent.  f  I 
mean,"  he  said,  "that  the  folks  that  come  now  make 
more  show,  an'  most  on  'em  who  ain't  visitin'  their  re- 
lations either  has  places  of  their  own  or  hires  'em  fer 
the  summer.  One  time  some  folks  used  to  come  an' 
stay  at  the  hotel.  The'  was  quite  a  fair  one  then,"  he 
explained ;  "but  it  burned  up,  an'  wa'n't  never  built 
up  agin  because  it  had  got  not  to  be  thought  the 
fash'nable  thing  to  put  up  there.  Mis'  Robinson 
(Dug's  wife),  an'  Mis'  Truman,  round  on  Laylock 
Street,  has  some  fam'lies  that  come  an'  board  with  them 
ev'ry  year,  but  that's  about  all  the  boardin'  the'  is 
now'days." 

Mr.  Harum  stopped  and  looked  at  his  companion 
thoughtfully  for  a  moment,  as  if  something  had  just 
occurred  to  him. 

"The'  '11  be  more  o'  your  kind  o'  folk  round,  come 
summer,"  he  said ;  and  then,  on  a  second  thought, 
"you're  'Piscopal,  ain't  ye  ?  " 

"I  have  always  attended  that  service,"  replied  John, 
smiling,  "and  I  have  gone  to  St.  James's  here  nearly 
every  Sunday." 

"Hain't  they  taken  any  notice  of  ye?"  asked  David. 

"Mr.  Euston,  the  rector,  called  upon  me,"  said  John, 
"but  I  have  made  no  further  acquaintances." 


DAVID   HARUM  275 

"E-um'm!"  said  David,  and,  after  a  moment,  in  a 
sort  of  confidential  tone,  "Do  you  like  goin'  to 
church  ?  "  he  asked. 

"Well,"  said  John,  "that  depends-yes,  I  think  I  do. 
I  think  it  is  the  proper  thing,"  he  concluded  weakly. 

"Depends  some  on  how  a  feller's  ben  brought  up, 
don't  ye  think  so1?"  said  David. 

"I  should  think  it  very  likely,"  John  assented, 
struggling  manfully  with  a  yawn. 

"I  guess  that's  about  my  case,"  remarked  Mr. 
Harum,  "an'  I  sh'd  have  to  admit  that  I  ain't  much  of 
a  hand  fer  church-goin'.  Polly  has  the  princ'pal  charge 
of  that  branch  of  the  bus'nis,  an'  the  one  I  stay  away 
from,  when  I  don't  go,"  he  said  with  a  grin,  "'s  the 
Prespyteriun." 

John  laughed. 

"No,  sir,"  said  David,  "I  ain't  much  of  a  hand  for't. 
Polly  used  to  worry  at  me  about  it  till  I  finely  says  to 
her, '< Polly,'  I  says,  'I'll  tell  ye  what  I'll  do.  I'll  com- 
permise  with  ye,'  I  says.  '  I  won't  undertake  to  foller 
right  along  in  your  track — I  hain't  got  the  req'sit 
speed,'  I  says,  'but  f  m  now  on  I'll  go  to  church  reg'lar 
on  Thanksgivin'.'  It  was  putty  near  Thanksgivin' 
time,"  he  remarked,  "an'  I  dunno  but  she  thought  if 
she  c'd  git  me  started  I'd  finish  the  heat,  an'  so  we 
fixed  it  at  that." 

"Of  course,"  said  John,  with  a  laugh,  "you  kept  your 
promise?" 

"Wa'al,  sir,"  declared  David,  with  the  utmost  grav- 
ity, "fer  the  next  five  years  I  never  missed  attendin' 
church  on  Thanksgivin'  day  but/ow  times;  but  after 
that,"  he  added,  "I  had  to  beg  off.  It  was  too  much 
of  a  strain,"  he  declared  with  a  chuckle,  "an'  it  took 
19 


276  DAVID   HARUM 

more  time  'n  Polly  c'd  really  afford  to  git  me  ready." 
And  so  he  rambled  on  upon  such  topics  as  suggested 
themselves  to  his  mind,  or  in  reply  to  his  auditor's 
comments  and  questions,  which  were,  indeed,  more 
perfunctory  than  otherwise.  For  the  Verjooses,  the 
Rogerses,  the  Swaynes,  and  the  rest,  were  people  whom 
John  not  only  did  not  know,  but  whom  he  neither  ex- 
pected nor  cared  to  know ;  and  so  his  present  interest 
in  them  was  extremely  small. 

Outside  of  his  regular  occupations,  and  despite  the 
improvement  in  his  domestic  environment,  life  was  so 
dull  for  him  that  he  could  not  imagine  its  ever  being 
otherwise  in  Homeville.  It  was  a  year  since  the  world 
—his  world— had  come  to  an  end,  and  though  his  sen- 
sations of  loss  and  defeat  had  passed  the  acute  stage, 
his  mind  was  far  from  healthy.  He  had  evaded  David's 
question,  or  only  half  answered  it,  when  he  merely  re- 
plied that  the  rector  had  called  upon  him.  The  truth 
was  that  some  tentative  advances  had  been  made  to 
him,  and  Mr.  Euston  had  presented  him  to  a  few  of  the 
people  in  his  flock  ;  but  beyond  the  point  of  mere  po- 
liteness he  had  made  no  response,  mainly  from  indiffer- 
ence, but  to  a  degree  because  of  a  suspicion  that  his 
connection  with  Mr.  Harum  would  not,  to  say  the  least, 
enhance  his  position  in  the  minds  of  certain  of  the 
people  of  Homeville.  As  has  been  intimated,  it  seemed 
at  the  outset  of  his  career  in  the  village  as  if  there  had 
been  a  combination  of  circumstance  and  effort  to  put 
him  on  his  guard,  and,  indeed,  rather  to  prejudice  him 
against  his  employer ;  and  Mr.  Harum,  as  it  now  ap- 
peared to  our  friend,  had  on  one  or  two  occasions  laid 
himself  open  to  misjudgment,  if  no  more.  No  allusion 
had  ever  been  made  to  the  episode  of  the  counterfeit 


DAVID   HARUM  277 

money  by  either  his  employer  or  himself,  and  it  was 
not  till  months  afterward  that  the  subject  was  brought 
up  by  Mr.  Richard  Larrabee,  who  sauntered  into  the 
bank  one  morning.  Finding  no  one  there  but  John, 
he  leaned  over  the  counter  on  his  elbows,  and  twisting 
one  leg  about  the  other  in  a  restful  attitude,  proceeded 
to  open  up  a  conversation  upon  various  topics  of  inter- 
est to  his  mind.  Dick  was  Mr.  Harum's  confidential 
henchman  and  factotum,  although  not  regularly  so  em- 
ployed. His  chief  object  in  life  was  apparently  to  get 
as  much  amusement  as  possible  out  of  that  experience, 
and  he  was  quite  unhampered  by  over-nice  notions  of 
delicacy  or  bashfulness.  But,  withal,  Mr.  Larrabee 
was  a  very  honest  and  loyal  person,  strong  in  his  likes 
and  dislikes,  devoted  to  David,  for  whom  he  had  the 
greatest  admiration,  and  he  had  taken  a  fancy  to  our 
friend,  stoutly  maintaining  that  he  "wa'n't  no  more 
stuck-up  'n  you  be,"  only,  as  he  remarked  to  Bill  Per- 
kins, "he  hain't  had  the  advantiges  of  your  bringin'  up." 

After  some  preliminary  talk,  "Say,"  he  said  to  John, 
"got  stuck  with  any  more  countyfit  money  lately?" 

John's  face  reddened  a  little  and  Dick  laughed. 

"The  old  man  told  me  about  it,"  he  said.  "Say, 
you'd  ought  to  done  as  he  told  ye  to.  You'd  'a'  saved 
fifteen  dollars,"  Dick  declared,  looking  at  our  friend 
with  an  expression  of  the  utmost  amusement. 

"I  don't  quite  understand,"  said  John  rather  stiffly. 

"Didn't  he  tell  ye  to  charge  'em  up  to  the  bank,  an' 
let  him  take  'em?"  asked  Dick. 

"Well?"  said  John  shortly. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know,"  said  Mr.  Larrabee.  "He  said 
sunthin'  to  make  you  think  he  was  goin'  to  pass  'em 
out,  an'  you  didn't  give  him  no  show  to  explain,  but 


278  DAVID   HARUM 

jes'  inarched  into  the  back  room  an'  stuck  'em  onto  the 
fire.  Ho,  ho,  ho,  ho !  He  told  me  all  about  it,"  cried 
Dick.  "Say,"  he  declared,  "I  dunno  's  I  ever  see  the 
old  man  more  kind  o'  womble-cropped  over  anythin'. 
Why,  he  wouldn't  no  more  'a'  passed  them  bills  'n  he'd 
'a'  cut  his  hand  off.  He,  he,  he,  he !  He  was  jes' 
ticklin'  your  heels  a  little,"  said  Mr.  Larrabee,  "to  see 
if  you'd  kick,  an',"  chuckled  the  speaker,  "you  surely 
did." 

"Perhaps  I  acted  rather  hastily,"  said  John,  laughing 
a  little  from  contagion. 

"Wa'al,"  said  Dick,  "Dave's  got  ways  of  his  own. 
I've  summered  an'  wintered  with  him  now  for  a  good 
many  years,  an'  I  ain't  got  to  the  bottom  of  him  yet, 
an',"  he  added,  "I  don't  know  nobody  that  has." 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

ALTHOUGH,  as  time  went  on  and  John  had  come  to  a 
better  insight  of  the  character  of  the  eccentric  person 
whom  Dick  had  failed  to  fathom,  his  half- formed  preju- 
dices had  fallen  away,  it  must  be  admitted  that  he  oft- 
times  found  him  a  good  deal  of  a  puzzle.  The  domains 
of  the  serious  and  the  facetious  in  David's  mind  seemed 
to  have  no  very  well  defined  boundaries. 

The  talk  had  drifted  back  to  the  people  and  gossip 
of  Homeville,  but,  sooth  to  say,  it  had  not  on  this  oc- 
casion got  far  away  from  those  topics. 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Harum,  "Alf  Verjoos  is  on  the  hull 
the  best  off  of  any  of  the  lot.  As  I  told  ye,  he  made 
money  on  top  of  what  the  old  man  left  him,  an'  he 
married  money.  The  fam'ly — some  on  'em — comes 
here  in  the  summer,  an'  he's  here  part  o'  the  time 
gen'ally,  but  the  women  folks  won't  stay  here  winters, 
an'  the  house  is  left  in  care  of  Alf s  sister,  who  never 
got  married.  He  don't  care  a  hill  o'  white  beans  fer 
anything  in  Homeville  but  the  old  place,  and  he  don't 
cal'late  to  have  nobody  on  his  grass,  not  if  he  knows  it. 
Him  an'  me  are  on  putty  friendly  terms,  but  the  fact 
is,"  said  David,  in  a  semi-confidential  tone,  "he's  about 
an  even  combine  of  pykery  an'  viniger,  an'  about  as' 
pop'lar  in  gen'ral  round  here  as  a  skunk  in  a  hen-house  ; 
but  Mis'  Verjoos  is  putty  well  liked  ;  an'  one  o'  the  girls 
— Claricy  is  her  name— is  a  good  deal  of  a  fav'rit. 
Juliet,  the  other  one,  don't  mix  with  the  village  folks 
much,  an'  sometimes  don't  come  with  the  fam'ly  at  all. 
She  favors  her  father,"  remarked  the  historian. 


280  DAVID   HARUM 

"Inherits  his  popularity,  I  conclude,"  remarked 
John,  smiling. 

"She  does  favor  him  to  some  extent  in  that  respect," 
was  the  reply ;  "an'  she's  dark  complected  like  him, 
but  she's  a  mighty  han'some  girl,  notwithstandin'. 
Both  on  'em  is  han'some  girls,"  observed  Mr.  Harum, 
"an'  great  fer  hosses,  an'  that's  the  way  I  got  'quainted 
with  'em.  They're  all  fer  ridin'  hossback  when  they're 
up  here.  Did  ye  ever  ride  a  hoss  ?  "  he  asked. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  John,  "I  have  ridden  a  good  deal  one 
time  and  another." 

"Never  c'd  see  the  sense  on't,"  declared  David.  "I 
c'n  imagine  gettin'  onto  a  hoss's  back  when  't  was 
either  that  or  walkin',  but  to  do  it  fer  the  fun  o'  the 
thing  's  more'n  I  c'n  understand.  There  ye  be,"  he 
continued,  "stuck  up  four  five  feet  up  in  the  air  like  a 
clo'espin,  havin'  yer  backbone  chucked  up  into  yer  skull, 
an'  takin'  the  skin  off  in  spots  an'  places,  expectin'  ev'ry 
next  minute  the  critter'll  git  out  f  m  under  ye.  No, 
sir,"  he  protested,  "if  it  come  to  be  that  it  was  either 
to  ride  a  hossback  fer  the  fun  o'  the  thing  or  have 
somebody  kick  me,  an'  kick  me  hard,  I'd  say,  'Kick 
away.'  It  comes  to  the  same  thing  fur  's  enjoyment 
goes,  and  it's  a  dum  sight  safer." 

John  laughed  outright,  while  David  leaned  forward 
with  his  hands  on  his  knees,  looking  at  him  with  a 
•broad  though  somewhat  doubtful  smile. 

"That  being  your  feeling,"  remarked  John,  "I  should 
think  saddle  horses  would  be  rather  out  of  your  line. 
Was  it  a  saddle  horse  that  the  Misses  Verjoos  were 
interested  in  !  " 

"Wa'al,  I  didn't  buy  him  fer  that,"  replied  David, 
"an'  in  fact  when  the  feller  that  sold  him  to  me  told 


DAVID   HARUM  281 

me  he'd  ben  rode,  I  allowed  that  ought  to  knock  twenty 

dollars  ofPn  the  price ;  but  I  did  have  such  a  hoss,  an' 

outside  o'  that,  he  was  a  nice  piece  of  hoss-flesh.     I 

was  up  to  the  barn  one  :{       >-s 

mornin',     mebbe     four  2_,&  X 

years  ago/'  he  continued, 

"when  in  drove  the  Ver- 

joos  carriage  with  one  of 

the  girls,  the  oldest  one, 

inside,    an'    the    yeller- 

haired  one  on  a  hossback.    '  Good-mornin'.    You're  Mr. 

Harum,  ain't  you?'  she  says.     ' Good-mornin','  I  says; 

'Harum's  the  name  't  I  use  when  I  appear  in  public. 

You're  Miss  Verjoos,  I  reckon,'  I  says. 

"She  laughed  a  little,  an'  says,  motionin'  with  her 
head  to'ds  the  carriage,  'My  sister  is  Miss  Verjoos. 
I'm  Miss  Claricy.'  I  took  off  my  cap,  an'  the  other  girl 
jes'  bowed  her  head  a  little. 

"'I  heard  you  had  a  hoss  't  I  could  ride,'  says  the 
one  on  hossback. 

"'Wa'al,'  I  says,  lookin'  at  her  hoss,  an'  he  was  a 
good  one,"  remarked  David,  "'fer  a  saddle  hoss,  I 
shouldn't  think  you  was  entirely  out  o'  hosses  long  's 
you  got  that  one.'  'Oh,'  she  says,  'this  is  my  sister's 
hoss.  Mine  has  hurt  his  leg  so  badly  that  I  am  'fraid  I 
sha'n't  be  able  to  ride  him  this  summer.'  'Wa'al,'  I 
says,  'I've  got  a  hoss  that's  ben  rode,  so  I  was  told,  but 
I  don't  know  of  my  own  knowin'.' 

"'Don't  you  ride?'  she  says.  'Hossback?'  I  says. 
'Why,  of  course,'  she  says.  'No,  ma'am,'  I  says,  'not 
when  I  c'n  raise  the  money  to  pay  my  fine.'  She  looked 
kind  o'  puzzled  at  that,"  remarked  David,  "but  I  see 
the  other  girl  look  at  her  an'  give  a  kind  of  quiet  laugh. 


282 


DAVID   HARUM 


'"Can  I  see  him?'  says  Miss  Claricy.  'Cert'nly,'  I 
says,  an'  went  an'  brought  him  out.  '  Oh  ! '  she  says  to 
her  sister,  'ain't  he  a  beauty?  C'n  I  try  him?'  she 
says  to  me.  'Wa'al,'  I  says,  'I  guess  I  c'n  resk  it  if 


you  can,  but  I  didn't  buy  him  fer  a  saddle  hoss,  an'  if 
I'm  to  own  him  fer  any  len'th  of  time  I'd  ruther  he'd 
fergit  the  saddle  bus'nis ;  an'  in  any  case,'  I  says,  1 1 
wouldn't  like  him  to  git  a  sore  back,  an'  then  agin,'  I 
says,  'I  hain't  got  no  saddle.' 


"Back  she  come,  lickity  cut. 


DAVID   HARUM  283 

"'  Wa'al,'  she  says,  givin'  her  head  a  toss,  'if  I  couldn't 
sit  straight  I'd  never  ride  agin.  I  never  made  a  hoss's 
back  sore  in  my  life,'  she  says.  'We  c'n  change  the 
saddle,'  she  says,  an'  off  she  jumps,  an',  scat  my —  !" 
exclaimed  David,  "the  way  she  knowed  about  gettin' 
that  saddle  fixed,  pads,  straps,  girt's,  an'  the  hull 
bus'nis,  an'  put  up  her  foot  fer  me  to  give  her  a  lift, 
an'  wheeled  that  hoss  an'  went  out  o'  the  yard  a-kitin', 
was  as  slick  a  piece  o'  hoss  bus'nis  as  ever  I  see.  It  took 
fust  money,  that  did,"  said  Mr.  Harum,  with  a  confirm- 
atory shake  of  the  head.  "Wa'al,"  he  resumed,  "in 
about  a  few  minutes  back  she  come,  lickity-cut,  an' 
pulled  up  in  front  of  me.  'C'n  you  send  my  sister's 
hoss  home1? '  she  says,  'an'  then  I  sha'n't  have  to  change 
agin.  I'll  stay  on  my  hoss,'  she  says,  laughin',  an'  then 
agin  laughin'  fit  to  kill,  fer  I  stood  there  with  my 
mouth  open  clear  to  my  back  teeth,  not  bein'  used  to 
doin'  bus'nis  'ith  quite  so  much  neatniss  an'  dispatch, 
as  the  sayin'  is. 

'"Oh,  it's  all  right,'  she  says.  'Poppa  came  home 
las'  night,  an'  I'll  have  him  see  you  this  afternoon  or 
to-morroV  'But  mebbe  he  'n'  I  won't  agree  about 
the  price,'  I  says.  'Yes,  you  will,'  she  says,  'an'  if  you 
don't  I  won't  make  his  back  sore'— an'  off  they  went, 
an'  left  me  standin'  there  like  a  stick  in  the  mud. 
I've  bought  an'  sold  hosses  to  some  extent  fer  a  con- 
sid'able  number  o'  years,"  said  Mr.  Harum  reflectively, 
"but  that  partic'ler  transaction's  got  a  peg  all  to  itself." 

John  laughed,  and  asked,  "How  did  it  come  out?  I 
mean,  what  sort  of  an  interview  did  you  have  with  the 
young  woman's  father,  the  popular  Mr.  Verjoos?" 

"Oh,"  said  David,  "he  druv  up  to  the  office  the  next 
moruin',  'bout  ten  o'clock,  an'  come  into  the  back  room 


284  DAVID   HARUM 

here,  an'  after  we'd  passed  the  time  o'  day,  he  says, 
clearin'  his  throat  in  a  way  he's  got,  '  He-uh,  he-uh  ! ' 
he  says,  'my  daughter  tells  me  that  she  run  off  with  a 
hoss  of  yours  yestid'y  in  rather  a  summ'ry  manner,  an 
— he-uh-uh — I  have  come  to  see  you  about  payin'  fer 
him.  What  is  the  price  ? '  he  says. 

"'Wa'al,'  I  says,  more'n  anythin'  to  see  what  he'd 
say,  'what  would  you  say  he  was  wuth?'  An'  with 
that  he  kind  o'  stiffened  a  little  stiffer  'n  he  was  before, 
if  it  could  be. 

"'Really,'  he  says,  'he-uh-uh,  I  haven't  any  idea.  I 
haven't  seen  the  animal,  an'  I  should  not  consider  my- 
self qual'fied  to  give  an  opinion  upon  his  value  if  I 
had,  but,'  he  says,  'I  don't  know  that  that  makes  any 
material  diff'rence,  however,  because  I  am  quite — 
he-uh,  he-uh— in  your  hands— he-uh  !— within  limits— 
he-uh-uh  ! — within  limits,'  he  says.  That  kind  o'  riled 
me,"  remarked  David.  "I  see  in  a  minute  what  was 
passin'  in  his  mind.  'Wa'al,'  I  says,  'Mr.  Verjoos,  I 
guess  the  fact  o'  the  matter  is  't  I'm  about  as  much  in 
the  mud  as  you  be  in  the  mire — your  daughter's  got 
my  hoss,'  I  says.  'Now  you  ain't  dealin'  with  a  hoss 
jockey,'  I  says,  'though  I  don't  deny  that  I  buy  an'  sell 
hosses,  an'  once  in  a  while  make  money  at  it.  You're 
dealin'  with  David  Harum,  Banker,  an'  I  consider  't 
I'm  dealin'  with  a  lady,  or  the  father  of  one  on  her 
account,'  I  says. 

"'He-uh,  he-uh !  I  meant  no  offense,  sir,'  he  says. 

"'None  bein'  meant,  none  will  be  took,'  I  says. 
'Now,'  I  says,  'I  was  offered  one-seventy-five  fer  that 
hoss  day  before  yestid'y,  an'  wouldn't  take  it.  I  can't 
sell  him  fer  that/  I  says. 

"'He-uh,  uh !  cert'nly  not,'  he  says. 


DAVID   HARUM 


285 


a  minit,'  I  says.  'I  can't  sell  him  fer  that 
because  I  said  I  wouldn't ;  but  if  you  feel  like  drawin' 
your  check  fer  one -seventy -sir,'  I  says,  'we'll  call  it  a 
deal.' "  The  speaker  paused  with  a  chuckle. 

"Well?"  said  John. 

"Wa'al,"  said  David,  "he,  he,  he,  he !     That  clean 
took  the  wind  out  of  him,  an'  he  got  redder  'n  a  beet. 
'He-uh-uh-uh-huh!   really,'   he  says,   'I   x  - 
couldn't  think  of  offerin'  you  less 
than  two  hunderd.' 

"'All  right,'  I  says,  'I'll  send  up 
fer  the  hoss.     One-seventy-six 
is  my  price,  no  more  an'  no  less,' 
an'  I  got  up  out  o'  my  chair." 

"And  what  did  he  say  then?" 
asked  John. 

"Wa'al,"  replied  Mr.  Harum, 
"he  settled  his  neck  down 
into  his  collar  an'  necktie  'If 

an'  cleared  his  throat  a  few  £. 
times,  an'  says,  'You  put  me 
in  ruther  an  embarrassin'  ^! 
position,  Mr.  Harum.  My 
daughter  has  set  her  heart 
on  the  hoss,  an'— he-uh- 
uh-uh  !  '—with  a  kind  of  ^~ 
a  smile  like  a  wrinkle  in  a  boot, 
'I  can't  very  well  tell  her  that  I 
wouldn't  buy  him  because  you 
wouldn't  accept  a  higher  offer  than  your  own  price. 
I— I  think  I  must  accede  to  your  proposition,  an' — he- 
uh-uh — accept  the  favor,'  he  says,  draggin'  the  words 
out  by  the  roots. 


286  DAVID   HARUM 

'"No  favor  at  all/  I  says,  'not  a  bit  on't,  not  a  bit 
on't.  It  was  the  cleanest  an'  slickist  deal  I  ever  had,'  I 
says,  'an'  I've  had  a  good  many.  That  girl  o'  yourn,' 
I  says,  'if  you  don't  mind  my  sayin'  it,  comes  as  near 
bein'  a  full  team  an'  a  cross  dog  under  the  wagin  as 
you  c'n  git ;  an'  you  c'n  tell  her,  if  you  think  fit,'  I 
says,  'that  if  she  ever  wants  any  thin'  more  out  o'  my 
barn  I'll  throw  off  twenty-four  dollars  ev'ry  time,  if 
she'll  only  do  her  own  buyin'.' 

"Wa'al,"  said  Mr.  Harum,  "I  didn't  know  but  what 
he'd  gag  a  little  at  that,  but  he  didn't  seem  to,  an' 
when  he  went  off  after  givin'  me  his  check,  he  put  out 
his  hand  an'  shook  hands,  a  thing  he  never  done  be- 
fore." 

"That  was  really  very  amusing,"  was  John's  comment. 

'"Twa'n't  a  bad  day's  work  either,"  observed  Mr. 
Harum.  "I've  sold  the  crowd  a  good  many  hosses 
since  then,  an'  I've  laughed  a  thousan'  times  over  that 
pertic'ler  trade.  Me  'n'  Miss  Claricy,"  he  added,  "has 
alwus  ben  good  friends  sence  that  time— an'  she  'n' 
Polly  are  reg'lar  neetups.  She  never  sees  me  in  the 
street  but  what  it's  'How  dee  do,  Mr.  H-a-rum? '  An' 
I'll  say,  'Ain't  that  ole  hoss  wore  out  yet?'  or,  'When 
you  comin'  round  to  run  off  with  another  hoss?'  I'll 
say." 

At  this  point  David  got  out  of  his  chair,  yawned,  and 
walked  over  to  the  window. 

"Did  you  ever  in  all  your  born  days,"  he  said,  "see 
such  dum'd  weather  ?  Jest  look  out  there — no  sleighin', 
no  wheelin',  an'  a  barn  full  wan  tin'  exercise.  Wa'al,  I 
guess  I'll  be  moseyin'  along."  And  out  he  went. 


CHAPTER   XXX 

IF  John  Lenox  had  kept  a  diary  for  the  first  year  of  his 
life  in  Home  ville  most  of  its  pages  would  havebeenblank. 

The  daily  routine  of  the  office  (he  had  no  assistant 
but  the  callow  Hopkins)  was  more  exacting  than  la- 
borious, but  it  kept  him  confined  seven  hours  in  the 
twenty-four.  Still,  there  was  time  in  the  lengthened 
days  as  the  year  advanced  for  walking,  rowing,  and 
riding  or  driving  about  the  picturesque  country  which 
surrounds  Homeville.  He  and  Mr.  Harum  often  drove 
together  after  the  bank  closed,  or  after  "tea,"  and  it 
was  a  pleasure  in  itself  to  observe  David's  dexterous 
handling  of  his  horses,  and  his  content  and  satisfaction 
in  the  enjoyment  of  his  favorite  pastime.  In  pursuit 
of  business  he  "jogged  round,"  as  he  said,  behind  the 
faithful  Jinny,  but  when  on  pleasure  bent,  a  pair  of 
satin-coated  trotters  drew  him  in  the  latest  and  "slick- 
est "  model  of  top-buggies. 

"Of  course,"  he  said,  "I'd  ruther  ride  all  alone  than 
not  to  ride  at  all,  but  the's  twice  as  much  fun  in't  when 
you've  got  somebody  along.  I  ain't  much  of  a  talker, 
unless  I  happen  to  git  started"  (at  which  assertion 
John  repressed  a  smile),  "but  once  in  a  while  I  like  to 
have  somebody  to  say  somethin'  to.  You  like  to  come 
along,  don't  ye  ?  " 

"Very  much  indeed." 

"I  used  to  git  Polly  to  come  once  in  a  while,"  said 
David,  "but  it  wa'n't  no  pleasure  to  her.  She  hadn't 
never  ben  used  to  hosses,  an'  alwus  set  on  the  edge  of 
the  seat  ready  to  jump,  an'  if  one  o'  the  critters  capered  a 


288  DAVID   HARUM 

little  she'd  want  to  git  right  out  then  an'  there.  I  reckon 
she  never  went  out  but  what  she  thanked  mercy  when 
she  struck  the  hoss-block  to  git  back  with  hull  bones." 
"I  shouldn't  have  thought  that  she  would  have  been 
nervous  with  the  reins  in  your  hands,"  said  John. 

"Wa'al,"  replied  DavjyJ,  "the  last  time  she  come 
along  somethin'  give  the  team  a  little  scare  an'  she 

reached  over 
an'  made  a 
grab  at  the 
lines.  That," 
he  remarked 
with  a  grin, 
"was  quite  a 

good  while  ago.  I  says  to  her  when  we  got  home,  'I 
guess  after  this  you'd  better  take  your  airin's  on  a  stun- 
boat.  You  won't  be  so  liable  to  git  run  away  with  an' 
throwed  out,'  I  says." 

John  laughed  a  little,  but  made  no  comment. 
"After  all,"  said  David,  "I  dunno  7s  I  blamed  her  fer 
bein'  skittish,  but  I  couldn't  have  her  grabbin'  the  lines. 
It's  curi's,"  he  reflected,  "I  didn't  used  to  mind  what  I 
rode  behind,  nor  who  done  the  drivin',  but  I'd  have  to 
admit  that  as  I  git  older  I  prefer  to  do  it  myself.  I 
ride  ev'ry  once  in  a  while  with  fellers  that  c'n  drive  as 
well,  an'  mebbe  better,  'n  I  can,  an'  I  know  it,  but  if 
any  thin'  turns  up,  or  looks  like  it,  I  can't  help  wishin'  't 
I  had  holt  o'  the  lines  myself." 

The  two  passed  a  good  many  hours  together  thus 
beguiling  the  time.  Whatever  David's  other  merits 
as  a  companion,  he  was  not  exacting  of  response 
when  engaged  in  conversation,  and  rarely  made  any 
demands  upon  his  auditor. 


'She  made  a  grab  at  the  lines." 


DAVID   HARUM  289 

During  that  first  year  John  made  few  additions  to 
his  social  acquaintance,  and  if  in  the  summer  the  sight 
of  a  gay  party  of  young  people  caused  some  stirrings 
in  his  breast,  they  were  not  strong  enough  to  induce 
him  to  make  any  attempts  toward  the  acquaintance 
which  he  might  have  formed.  He  was  often  conscious 
of  glances  of  curiosity  directed  toward  himself,  and  Mr. 
Euston  was  asked  a  good  many  questions  about  the 
latest  addition  to  his  congregation. 

Yes,  he  had  called  upon  Mr.  Lenox  and  his  call  had 
been  returned.  In  fact,  they  had  had  several  visits 
together— had  met  out  walking  once  and  had  gone  on 
in  company.  Was  Mr.  Lenox  "nice"?  Yes,  he  had 
made  a  pleasant  impression  upon  Mr.  Euston,  and 
seemed  to  be  a  person  of  intelligence  and  good  breed- 
ing—very gentlemanlike.  Why  did  not  people  know 
him?  Well,  Mr.  Euston  had  made  some  proffers  to 
that  end,  but  Mr.  Lenox  had  merely  expressed  his 
thanks.  No,  Mr.  Euston  did  not  know  how  he  hap- 
pened to  be  in  Homeville  and  employed  by  that  queer 
old  Mr.  Harum,  and  living  with  him  and  his  funny  old 
sister ;  Mr.  Lenox  had  not  confided  in  him  at  all,  and 
though  very  civil  and  pleasant,  did  not  appear  to  wish 
to  be  communicative. 

So  our  friend  did  not  make  his  entrance  that  season 
into  the  drawing-  or  dining-rooms  of  any  of  what  David 
called  the  "nabobs'  "  houses.  By  the  middle  or  latter 
part  of  October  Homeville  was  deserted  of  its  visitors 
and  as  many  of  that  class  of  its  regular  population  as 
had  the  means  to  go  with  and  a  place  to  go  to. 

It  was  under  somewhat  different  auspices  that  John 
entered  upon  the  second  winter  of  his  sojourn.  It  has 
been  made  plain  that  his  relations  with  his  employer 


290     .  DAVID   HARUM 

and  the  kind  and  lovable  Polly  were  on  a  satisfactory 
and  permanent  footing. 

"I'm  dum'd,"  said  David  to  Dick  Larrabee,  "if  it 
hain't  got  putty  near  to  the  p'int  when  if  I  want  to  git 
anythin'  out  o'  the  common  run  out  o'  Polly,  I'll  have 
to  ask  John  to  fix  it  fer  me.  She's  like  a  cow  with  a 
calf,"  he  declared. 

"David  sets  all  the  store  in  the  world  by  him,"  stated 
Mrs.  Bixbee  to  a  friend,  "though  he  don't  jes'  let  on  to 
— not  in  so  many  words.  He's  got  a  kind  of  a  notion 
that  his  little  boy,  if  he'd  lived,  would  'a'  ben  like  him 
some  ways.  I  never  seen  the  child,"  she  added,  with 
an  expression  which  made  her  visitor  smile,  "but  as 
near  's  I  c'n  make  out  f 'm  Dave's  tell,  he  must  'a'  ben 
red-headed.  Didn't  you  know  't  he'd  ever  ben  mar- 
ried? Wa'al,  he  was  fer  a  few  years,  though  it's  the 
one  thing — wa'al,  I  don't  mean  exac'ly  that — it's  one  o' 
the  things  he  don't  have  much  to  say  about.  But  once 
in  a  while  he'll  talk  about  the  boy,  what  he'd  be  now 
if  he'd  lived,  an'  so  on ;  an'  he's  the  greatest  hand  fer 
childern— everlastin'ly  pickin'  on  'em  up  when  he's 
ridin'  an'  such  as  that ;  an'  I  seen  him  once,  when  we 
was  travelin'  on  the  cars,  go  an'  take  a  squawlin'  baby 
away  f'm  its  mother,  who  looked  ready  to  drop,  an' 
lay  it  across  that  big  chest  of  his,  an'  the  little  thing 
never  gave  a  whimper  after  he  got  it  into  his  arms- 
jest  went  right  off  to  sleep.  No,"  said  Mrs.  Bixbee,  "I 
never  had  no  childern,  an'  I  don't  know  but  what  I 
was  glad  of  it  at  the  time ;  Jim  Bixbee  was  about  as 
much  baby  as  I  thought  I  could  manage,  but  now — " 

There  was  some  reason  for  not  concluding  the  sen- 
tence, and  so  we  do  not  know  what  was  in  her  mind. 


CHAPTER   XXXI 

THE  year  that  had  passed  had  seemed  a  very  long  one 
to  John,  but  as  the  months  came  and  went  he  had  in  a 
measure  adjusted  himself  to  the  change  in  his  fortunes 
and  environment ;  and  so  as  time  went  on  the  poignancy 
of  his  sorrow  and  regret  diminished,  as  it  does  with  all 
of  us.  Yet  the  sight  of  a  gray-haired  man  still  brought 
a  pang  to  his  heart,  and  there  were  times  of  yearning 
longing  to  recall  every  line  of  the  face,  every  detail  of 
the  dress,  the  voice,  the  words,  of  the  girl  who  had 
been  so  dear  to  him,  and  who  had  gone  out  of  his  life 
as  irrevocably,  it  seemed  to  him,  as  if  by  death  itself. 
It  may  be  strange,  but  it  is  true  that  for  a  very  long 
time  it  never  occurred  to  him  that  he  might  communi- 
cate with  her  by  mailing  a  letter  to  her  New  York  ad- 
dress to  be  forwarded,  and  when  the  thought  came  to 
him  the  impulse  to  act  upon  it  was  very  strong,  but  he 
did  not  do  so.  Perhaps  he  would  have  written  had  he 
been  less  in  love  with  her,  but  also  there  was  mingled 
with  that  sentiment  something  of  bitterness  which, 
though  he  could  not  quite  explain  or  justify  it,  did 
exist.  Then,  too,  he  said  to  himself,  "Of  what  avail 
would  it  be  1  Only  to  keep  alive  a  longing  for  the  im- 
possible." No,  he  would  forget  it  all.  Men  had  died 
and  worms  had  eaten  them,  but  not  for  love.  Many 
men  lived  all  their  lives  without  it  and  got  on  very 
well  too,  he  was  aware.  Perhaps  some  day,  when  he 
had  become  thoroughly  affiliated  and  localized,  he 
would  wed  a  village  maiden,  and  rear  a  Freeland 
County  brood.  Our  friend,  as  may  be  seen,  had  a 


292 


DAVID    HARUM 


pretty  healthy  mind,  and  we   need   not  sympathize 
with  him  to  the  disturbance  of  our  own  peace. 

Books  accumulated  in  the  best  bedroom.  John's  ex- 
penses were  small,  and  there  was  very  little  temptation, 
or  indeed  opportunity,  for  spending.  At  the  time  of 


his  taking  possession  of  his  quarters  in  David's  house 
he  had  raised  the  question  of  his  contribution  to  the 
household  expenses,  but  Mr.  Harum  had  declined  to 
discuss  the  matter  at  all  and  referred  him  to  Mrs.  Bix- 
bee,  with  whom  he  compromised  on  a  weekly  sum 
which  appeared  to  him  absurdly  small,  but  which  she 


DAVID    HARUM  293 

protested  she  was  ashamed  to  accept.  After  a  while  a 
small  upright  piano  made  its  appearance,  with  Aunt 
Polly's  approval. 

"Why,  of  course,"  she  said.  "You  needn't  to  hev 
ast  me.  I'd  like  to  hev  you  anyway.  I  like  music 
ever  so  much,  an'  so  does  David,  though  I  guess  it 
would  floor  him  to  try  an'  raise  a  tune.  I  used  to  sing 
quite  a  little  when  I  was  younger,  an'  I  gen'ally  help  at 
church  an7  prayer  meetin'  now.  Why,  cert'nly.  Why 
not  ?  When  would  you  play  if  it  wa'n't  in  the  evenin'  1 
David  sleeps  over  the  wing.  Do  you  hear  him  snore  ?  " 

"Hardly  ever,"  replied  John,  smiling.  "That  is  to 
say,  not  very  much — just  enough  sometimes  to  know 
that  he  is  asleep." 

"Wa'al,"  she  said  decidedly,  "if  he's  fur  enough  off 
so't  you  can't  hear  Mm,  I  guess  he  won't  hear  you  much, 
an'  he  sure  won't  hear  you  after  he  gits  to  sleep." 

So  the  piano  came,  and  was  a  great  comfort  and  re- 
source. Indeed,  before  long  it  became  the  regular 
order  of  things  for  David  and  his  sister  to  spend  an 
hour  or  so  on  Sunday  evenings  listening  to  his  music 
and  their  own  as  well — that  is,  the  music  of  their 
choice— which  latter  was  mostly  to  be  found  in  "Car- 
mina  Sacra"  and  "Moody  and  Sankey";  and  Aunt 
Polly's  heart  was  glad  indeed  when  she  and  John  to- 
gether made  concord  of  sweet  sounds  in  some  familiar 
hymn  tune,  to  the  great  edification  of  Mr.  Harum, 
whose  admiration  was  unbounded. 

"Did  I  tell  you,"  said  David  to  Dick  Larrabee,  "what 
happened  the  last  time  me  an'  John  went  ridin'  to- 
gether?" 

"Not 's  I  remember  on,"  replied  Dick. 


294  DAVID   HARUM 

"Wa'al,  we've  rode  together  quite  a  consid'able,"  said 
Mr.  Harum,  "but  I  hadn't  never  said  any  thin'  to  him 
about  takin'  a  turn  at  the  lines.     This  day  we'd  got  a 
piece  out  into  the  country  an'  I  had  the  brown  colts. 
I  says  to  him,  'Ever  do  any  drivin'  t ' 
"'More  or  less/  he  says. 
"'Like  to  take  the  lines  fer  a  spell?'  I  says. 
"'Yes,'  he  says,  lookin'  kind  o'  pleased,  'if  you  ain't 
afraid  to  trust  me  with  'em,'  he  says. 

'"Wa'al,  I'll  be  here,'  I  says,  an'  handed  'em  over. 
Wa'al,  sir,  I  see  jes'  by  the  way  he  took  holt  on  'em  it 
wa'n't  the  fust  time,  an'  we  went  along  to  where  the 
road  turns  in  through  a  piece  of  woods,  an'  the  track 
is  narrer,  an'  we  run  slap  onto  one  o'  them  dum'd  road- 
engines  that  had  got  wee-wawed  putty  near  square 
across  the  track.  Now  I  tell  ye,"  said  Mr.  Harum, 
"them  hosses  didn't  like  it  fer  a  cent,  an',  tell  the  truth, 
I  didn't  like  it  no  better.  We  couldn't  go  ahead,  fer 
we  couldn't  git  by  the  cussed  thing,  an'  the 
hosses  was  'par'ntly  tryin'  to  git  back  under 

the  buggy, 
an',  scat 
my—  !  if 
he  didn't 
straighten 
'em  out 
an'  back 
'em  round 

in  that  narrer  road,  an'  hardly  scraped  a  wheel.  Yes, 
sir,"  declared  Mr.  Harum,  "I  couldn't  'a'  done  it  slicker 
myself,  an'  I  don't  know  nobody  that  could." 

"Guess  you  must  'a'  felt  a  little  ticklish  yourself," 
said  Dick  sympathetically,  laughing  as  usual. 


DAVID   HARUM  295 

"Wa'al,  you  better  believe,"  declared  the  other. 
"The'  was  'bout  half  a  minute  when  I'd  have  sold  out 
mighty  cheap,  an'  took  a  promise  fer  the  money.  He's 
welcome  to  drive  any  team  in  my  barn,"  said  David, 
feeling— in  which  view  Mr.  Larrabee  shared— that 
encomium  was  pretty  well  exhausted  in  that  assertion. 

"I  don't  believe,"  said  Mr.  Harum  after  a  moment, 
in  which  he  and  his  companion  reflected  upon  the 
gravity  of  his  last  declaration,  "that  the's  any  dum 
thing  that  feller  can't  do.  The  last  thing  's  a  piany. 
He's  got  a  little  one  that  stands  up  on  its  hind  legs  in 
his  room,  an'  he  c'n  play  it  with  both  hands  'thout 
lookin'  on.  Yes,  sir,  we  have  reg'lar  concerts  at  my 
house  ev'ry  Sunday  night,  admission  free,  an'  childern 
half  price,  an',"  said  David,  "you'd  ought  to  hear  him 
an'  Polly  sing ;  an' — he,  he,  he  !  you'd  ought  to  see  her 
singin'— tickleder  'n  a  little  dog  with  a  nosegay  tied  to 
his  tail." 


CHAPTEE  XXXII 

OUR  friend's  acquaintance  with  the  rector  of  St.  James's 
Church  had  grown  into  something  like  friendship,  and 
the  two  men  were  quite  often  together  in  the  evening. 
John  went  sometimes  to  Mr.  Euston's  house,  and  not 
unfrequently  the  latter  would  spend  an  hour  in  John's 
room  over  a  cigar  and  a  chat.  On  one  of  the  latter 
occasions,  late  in  the  autumn,  Mr.  Euston  went  to  the 
piano  after  sitting  a  few  minutes,  and  looked  over  some 
of  the  music,  among  which  were  two  or  three  hymnals. 

"You  are  musical,"  he  said. 

"In  a  modest  way,"  was  the  reply. 

"I  am  very  fond  of  it,"  said  the  clergyman,  "but 
have  little  knowledge  of  it.  I  wish  I  had  more,"  he 
added  in  a  tone  of  so  much  regret  as  to  cause  his  hearer 
to  look  curiously  at  him.  "Yes,"  he  said,  "I  wish  I 
knew  more— or  less.  It's  the  bane  of  my  existence," 
declared  the  rector  with  a  half-laugh. 

John  looked  inquiringly  at  him,  but  did  not  respond. 

"I  mean  the  music— so  called — at  St.  James's,"  said 
Mr.  Euston.  "I  don't  wonder  you  smile,"  he  remarked  ; 
"but  it's  not  a  matter  for  smiling  with  me." 


DAVID   HARUM  297 

"I  beg  pardon/'  said  John. 

"No,  you  need  not,"  returned  the  other,  "but  really 
-well,  there  are  a  good  many  unpleasant  and  dis- 
heartening experiences  in  a  clergyman's  life,  and  I  can, 
I  hope,  face  and  endure  most  of  them  with  patience, 
but  the  musical  part  of  my  service  is  a  never-ending 
source  of  anxiety,  perplexity,  and  annoyance.  I 
think,"  said  Mr.  Euston,  "that  I  expend  more  nerve  tis- 
sue upon  that  branch  of  my  responsibilities  than  upon 
all  the  rest  of  my  work.  You  see,  we  cannot  afford  to 
pay  any  of  the  singers,  and  indeed  my  people — some 
of  them,  at  least— think  fifty  dollars  is  a  great  sum  for 
poor  little  Miss  Knapp,  the  organist.  The  rest  are 
volunteers,  or  rather,  I  should  say,  have  been  pressed 
into  the  service.  We  are  supposed  to  have  two  so- 
pranos and  two  altos ;  but  in  effect  it  happens  some- 
times that  neither  of  a  pair  will  appear,  each  expecting 
the  other  to  be  on  duty.  The  tenor,  Mr.  Hubber,  who 
is  an  elderly  man  without  any  voice  to  speak  of,  but  a 
very  devout  and  faithful  churchman,  is  to  be  depended 
upon  to  the  extent  of  his  abilities ;  but  Mr.  Little,  the 
bass— well,"  observed  Mr.  Euston,  "the  less  said  about 
him  the  better." 

"How  about  the  organist1?  "  said  John.  "I  think  she 
does  very  well— doesn't  she?  " 

"Miss  Knapp  is  the  one  redeeming  feature,"  replied 
the  rector,  "but  she  has  not  much  courage  to  interfere. 
Hubber  is  nominally  the  leader,  but  he  knows  little  of 
music."  Mr.  Euston  gave  a  sorry  little  laugh.  "It's 
trying  enough,"  he  said,  "one  Sunday  with  another, 
but  on  Christmas  and  Easter,  when  my  people  make  an 
unusual  effort  and  attempt  the  impossible,  it  is  some- 
thing deplorable." 


298  DAVID   HARUM 

John  could  not  forbear  a  little  laugh.  "I  should 
think  it  must  be  pretty  trying/'  he  said. 

"It  is  simply  corroding,"  declared  Mr.  Euston. 

They  sat  for  a  while  smoking  in  silence,  the  contem- 
plation of  his  woes  having  apparently  driven  other 
topics  from  the  mind  of  the  harassed  clergyman.  At 
last  he  said,  turning  to  our  friend  : 

"I  have  heard  your  voice  in  church." 

"Yes?" 

"And  I  noticed  that  you  sang  not  only  the  hymns 
but  the  chants,  and  in  a  way  to  suggest  the  idea  that 
you  have  had  experience  and  training.  I  did  not  come 
here  for  the  purpose,"  said  Mr.  Eustou,  after  waiting  a 
moment  for  John  to  speak,  "though  I  confess  the  idea 
has  occurred  to  me  before,  but  it  was  suggested  again 
by  the  sight  of  your  piano  and  music.  I  know  that  it 
is  asking  a  great  deal,"  he  continued,  "but  do  you 
think  you  could  undertake,  for  a  while  at  least,  to  help 
such  a  lame  dog  as  I  am  over  the  stile  1  You  have  no 
idea,"  said  the  rector  earnestly,  "what  a  service  you 
would  be  doing  not  only  to  me,  but  to  my  people  and 
the  church." 

John  pulled  thoughtfully  at  his  mustache  for  a  mo- 
ment, while  Mr.  Euston  watched  his  face.  "I  don't 
know,"  he  said  at  last  in  a  doubtful  tone.  "I  am  afraid 
you  are  taking  too  much  for  granted— I  don't  mean  as 
to  my  good  will,  but  as  to  my  ability  to  be  of  service, 
for  I  suppose  you  mean  that  I  should  help  in  drilling 
your  choir." 

"Yes,"  replied  Mr.  Euston.  "I  suppose  it  would  be 
too  much  to  ask  you  to  sing  as  well." 

"I  have  had  no  experience  in  the  way  of  leading  or 
directing,"  replied  John,  ignoring  the  suggestion, 


DAVID    HARUM  299 

"though  I  have  sung  in  church  more  or  less,  and  am 
familiar  with  the  service  ;  but  even  admitting  my  abil- 
ity to  be  of  use,  shouldn't  you  be  afraid  that  my  inter- 
posing might  make  more  trouble  than  it  would  help  ? 
Wouldn't  your  choir  resent  it?  Such  people  are  some- 
times jealous,  you  know." 

"Oh,  dear,  yes,"  sighed  the  rector.  "But,"  he  added, 
"I  think  I  can  guarantee  that  there  will  be  no  un- 
pleasant feeling  either  toward  you  or  about  you. 
Your  being  from  New  York  will  give  you  a  certain 
prestige,  and  their  curiosity  and  the  element  of  novelty 
will  make  the  beginning  easy." 

There  came  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  Mr.  Harum  ap- 
peared, but,  seeing  a  visitor,  was  for  withdrawing. 

"Don't  go,"  said  John.  "Come  in.  Of  course  you 
know  Mr.  Euston." 

"Glad  to  see  ye,"  said  David,  advancing  and  shaking 
hands.  "You  folks  talkin'  bus'nis?"  he  asked  before 
sitting  down. 

"I  am  trying  to  persuade  Mr.  Lenox  to  do  me  a 
great  favor,"  said  Mr.  Euston. 

"Well,  I  guess  he  won't  want  such  an  awful  sight  o' 
persuadin',"  said  David,  taking  a  chair,  "if  he's  able  to 
do  it.  What  does  he  want  of  ye?"  he  asked,  turning 
to  John. 

Mr.  Euston  explained,  and  our  friend  gave  his  reasons 
for  hesitating— all  but  the  chief  one,  which  was  that 
he  was  reluctant  to  commit  himself  to  an  undertaking 
which  he  apprehended  would  be  not  only  laborious  but 
disagreeable. 

"Wa'al,"  said  David,  "as  fur  's  the  bus'nis  itself  's 
concerned,  the  hull  thing's  all  nix-cum-rouse  to  me;- 
but  as  fur  's  gettiu'  folks  to  come  an'  sing,  you  c'n  git  a 


300  DAVID   HARUM 

barn  full,  an'  take  your  pick  ;  an'  a  feller  that  c'n  git  a 
pair  of  bosses  an'  a  buggy  out  of  a  tight  fix  the  way 
you  done  awhile  ago  ought  to  be  able  to  break  in  a 
little  team  of  half  a  dozen  women  or  so." 

"Well/'  said  John,  laughing,  "you  could  have  done 
what  I  was  lucky  enough  to  do  with  the  horses,  but — " 

"Yes,  yes,"  David  broke  in,  scratching  his  cheek,  "I 
guess  ye  got  me  that  time." 

Mr.  Euston  perceived  that  for  some  reason  he  had  an 
ally  and  advocate  in  Mr.  Harum.  He  rose  and  said 
good-night,  and  John  escorted  him  downstairs  to  the 
door.  "Pray  think  of  it  as  favorably  as  you  can,"  he 
said,  as  they  shook  hands  at  parting. 

"Putty  nice  kind  of  a  man,"  remarked  David  when 
John  came  back ;  "putty  nice  kind  of  a  man.  'Bout 
the  only  'quaintance  you've  made  of  his  kind,  ain't 
he?  Wa'al,  he's  all  right  fur  's  he  goes.  Comes  of 
good  stock,  I'm  told,  an'  looks  it.  Euns  a  good  deal 
to  emptins  in  his  preachin',  though,  they  say.  How  do 
ye  find  him1?" 

"I  think  I  enjoy  his  conversation  more  than  his  ser- 
mons," admitted  John,  with  a  smile. 

"Less  of  it  at  times,  ain't  the'?"  suggested  David. 
"I  may  have  told  ye,"  he  continued,  "that  I  wa'n't  a 
very  reg'lar  churchgoer,  but  I've  ben  more  or  less  in 
my  time,  an'  when  I  did  listen  to  the  sermon  all 
through,  it  gen' ally  seemed  to  me  that  if  the  preacher  'd 
put  all  the'  really  was  in  it  together  he  wouldn't  need 
to  have  took  only  'bout  quarter  the  time ;  but  what 
with  scorin'  fer  a  start,  an'  laggin'  on  the  back  stretch, 
an'  ev'ry  now  an'  then  breakin'  to  a  stan'still,  I  geu'- 
ally  wanted  to  come  down  out  o'  the  stand  before  the 
race  was  over.  The's  a  good  many  fast  quarter  hosses," 


DAVID   HARUM  301 

remarked  Mr.  Harum,  "but  them  that  c'n  keep  it  up 
fer  a  full  mile  is  scurce.  What  you  goin'  to  do  about 
the  music  bus'nis,  or  hain't  ye  made  up  your  mind 
yet?"  he  asked,  changing  the  subject. 

"I  like  Mr.  Euston,"  said  John,  "and  he  seems  very 
much  in  earnest  about  this  matter ;  but  I  am  not  sure," 
he  added  thoughtfully,  "that  I  can  do  what  he  wants, 
and  I  must  say  that  I  am  very  reluctant  to  undertake 
it ;  still,  I  don't  know  but  that  I  ought  to  make  the 
trial,"  and  he  looked  up  at  David. 

"I  guess  I  would  if  I  was  you,"  said  the  latter.  "It 
can't  do  ye  no  harm,  an'  it  may  do  ye  some  good.  The 
fact  is,"  he  continued,  "that  you  ain't  out  o'  danger  of 
runnin'  in  a  rut.  It  would  do  ye  good  mebbe  to  git 
more  acquainted,  an'  mebbe  this'll  be  the  start  on't." 

"With  a  little  team  of  half  a  dozen  women,  as  you 
called  them,"  said  John.  "Mr.  Euston  has  offered  to 
introduce  me  to  any  one  I  cared  to  know." 

"I  didn't  mean  the  singin'  folks,"  responded  Mr. 
Harum ;  "I  meant  the  church  folks  in  gen'ral,  an' 
it'll  come  round  in  a  natur'l  sort  of  way — not  like  bein' 
took  round  by  Mr.  Euston  as  if  you'd  ast  him  to.  You 
can't  git  along — you  may,  an'  have  fer  a  spell,  but  not 
alwus— with  nobody  to  visit  with  but  me  an'  Polly  an' 
Dick,  an'  so  on,  an'  once  in  a  while  with  the  parson ; 
you  ben  used  to  somethin'  diff' rent,  an'  while  I  ain't 
say  in'  that  Homeville  soci'ty,  pertic'lerly  in  the  win- 
ter, 's  the  finest  in  the  land,  or  that  me  an'  Polly  ain't 
all  right  in  our  way,  you  want  a  change  o'  feed  once  in 
a  while,  or  ye  may  git  the  colic.  Now,"  proceeded  the 
speaker,  "if  this  singin'  bus'nis  don't  do  more'n  to  give 
ye  somethin'  new  to  think  about,  an'  take  up  an  evenin' 
now  an'  then,  even  if  it  bothers  ye  some,  I  think  mebbe 


302 


DAVID   HARUM 


it'll  be  a  good  thing  fer  ye.  They  say  a  reasonable 
amount  o'  fleas  is  good  fer  a  dog— keeps  him  from 
broodin'  over  bein'  a  dog,  mebbe,"  suggested  David. 

"Perhaps  you  are  right,"  said  John.  "Indeed,  I 
don't  doubt  that  you  are  right,  and  I  will  take  your 
advice." 

"Thank  you,"  said  David  a  minute  or  two  later  on, 
holding  out  the  glass  while  John  poured,  "jest  a  wis- 
dom-toothful. I  don't  set  up  /  _,  , 
to  be  no  Sol'mon,  an'  if  ye  ever 
find  out  how  I'm  bettin'  on  a 
race,  jest  'copper'  me  an'  you 
c'n  wear  di'monds,  but  I  know 
when  a  hoss  has  stood  too 


long  in  the  barn  as  soon  as  the 

next  man." 
v    °  It  is  possible  that  even  Mr. 

Euston  did  not  fully  appreci- 
ate the  difficulties  of  the  task  which  he  persuaded 
our  friend  John  to  undertake ;  and  it  is  certain  that 
had  the  latter  known  all  that  they  were  to  be,  he  would 
have  hardened  his  heart  against  both  the  pleadings  of 
the  rector  and  the  advice  of  David.  His  efforts  were 


DAVID   HARUM  303 

welcomed  and  seconded  by  Mr.  Hubber  the  tenor,  and 
Miss  Knapp  the  organist,  and  there  was  some  earnest- 
ness displayed  at  first  by  the  ladies  of  the  choir ;  but 
Mr.  Little,  the  bass,  proved  a  hopeless  case,  and  John, 
wholly  against  his  intentions,  and  his  inclinations  as 
well,  had  eventually  to  take  over  the  basso's  duty  alto- 
gether, as  being  the  easiest  way — in  fact,  the  only  way 
—to  save  his  efforts  from  downright  failure. 

Without  going  in  detail  into  the  trials  and  tribula- 
tions incident  to  the  bringing  of  the  musical  part  of 
the  service  at  Mr.  Euston's  church  up  to  a  respectable 
if  not  a  high  standard,  it  may  be  said  that  with  unre- 
mitting pains  this  end  was  accomplished,  to  the  bound- 
less relief  and  gratitude  of  that  worthy  gentleman,  and 
to  a  good  degree  of  the  members  of  his  congregation. 


CHAPTER   XXXIII 

ON  a  fine  Sunday  in  summer  after  the  close  of  the  ser- 
vice the  exit  of  the  congregation  of  St.  James's  Church 
presents  an  animated  and  inspiring  spectacle.  A  good 
many  well-dressed  ladies  of  various  ages,  and  not  quite 
so  many  well-dressed  men,  mostly  (as  David  would 
have  put  it)  "runnin'  a  little  younger,"  come  from  out 
the  sacred  edifice  with  an  expression  of  relief  easily 
changeable  to  something  gayer.  A  few  drive  away  in 
handsome  equipages,  but  most  prefer  to  walk,  and  there 
is  usually  a  good  deal  of  smiling  talk  in  groups  before 
parting,  in  which  Mr.  Euston  likes  to  join.  He  leaves 
matters  in  the  vestry  to  the  care  of  old  Barlow,  the 
sexton,  and  makes,  if  one  may  be  permitted  the  ex- 
pression, "a  quick  change." 

Things  had  come  about  very  much  as  David  had  de- 
sired and  anticipated,  and  our  friend  had  met  quite  a 
number  of  the  "summer  people,"  having  been  waylaid 
at  times  by  the  rector— in  whose  good  graces  he  stood 
so  high  that  he  might  have  sung  anything  short  of  a 
comic  song  during  the  offertory— and  presented  willy- 
nilly.  On  this  particular  Sunday  he  had  lingered 
awhile  in  the  gallery  after  service  over  some  matter 
connected  with  the  music,  and  when  he  came  out  of  the 
church  most  of  the  people  had  made  their  way  down 
the  front  steps  and  up  the  street ;  but  standing  hear 
the  gate  was  a  group  of  three— the  rector  and  two 
young  women  whom  John  had  seen  the  previous  sum- 
mer, and  now  recognized  as  the  Misses  Verjoos.  He 
raised  his  hat  as  he  was  passing  the  group,  when  Mr. 


DAVID  HARUM  305 

Euston  detained  him :  "I  want  to  present  you  to  the 
Misses  Verjoos."  A  tall  girl,  dressed  in  some  black 
material  which  gave  John  the  impression  of  lace,  recog- 
nized his  salutation  with  a  slight  bow  and  a  rather  in- 
different survey  from  a  pair  of  very  somber  dark  eyes, 
while  her  sister,  in  light  colors,  gave  him  a  smiling 
glance  from  a  pair  of  very  blue  ones,  and,  rather  to  his 
surprise,  put  out  her  hand  with  the  usual  declaration 
of  pleasure,  happiness,  or  what  not. 

"We  were  just  speaking  of  the  singing,"  said  the 
rector,  "and  I  was  saying  that  it  was  all  your  doing." 

"You  really  have  done  wonders,"  condescended  she 
of  the  somber  eyes.  "We  have  only  been  here  a  day 
or  two,  and  this  is  the  first  time  we  have  been  at 
church." 

The  party  moved  out  of  the  gate  and  up  the  street, 
the  rector  leading  with  Miss  Verjoos,  followed  by  our 
friend  and  the  younger  sister. 

"Indeed  you  have,"  said  the  latter,  seconding  her  sis- 
ter's remark.  "I  don't  believe  even  yourself  can  quite 
realize  what  the  difference  is.  My  !  it  is  very  nice  for 
the  rest  of  us,  but  it  must  be  a  perfect  killing  bore  for 
you." 

"I  have  found  it  rather  trying  at  times,"  said  John ; 
"but  now — you  are  so  kind — it  is  beginning  to  appear 
to  me  as  the  most  delightful  of  pursuits." 

"Very  pretty,"  remarked  Miss  Clara.  "Do  you  say 
a  good  deal  of  that  sort  of  thing?  " 

"I  am  rather  out  of  practice,"  replied  John.  "I 
haven't  had  much  opportunity  for  some  time." 

"I  don't  think  you  need  feel  discouraged,"  she  re- 
turned. "A  good  method  is  everything,  and  I  have  no 
doubt  you  might  soon  be  in  form  again." 


306  DAVID   HARUM 

"Thanks  for  your  encouragement,"  said  John,  smil- 
ing. "I  was  beginning  to  feel  quite  low  in  my  mind 
about  it." 

She  laughed  a  little. 

"I  heard  quite  a  good  deal  about  you  last  year  from 
a  very  good  friend  of  yours,"  said  Miss  Clara  after  a 
pause. 

John  looked  at  her  inquiringly. 

"Mrs.  Bixbee,"  she  said.     "Isn't  she  an  old  dear  !  " 

"I  have  reason  to  think  so  with  all  my  heart,"  said 
John  stoutly. 

"She  talked  a  lot  about  you  to  me,"  said  Miss  Clara. 

"Yes?" 

"Yes,  and  if  your  ears  did  not  burn  you  have  no 
sense  of  gratitude.  Isn't  Mr.  Harum  funny?" 

"I  have  sometimes  suspected  it,"  said  John,  laugh- 
ing. "He  once  told  me  rather  an  amusing  thing  about 
a  young  woman's  running  off  with  one  of  his  horses." 

"Did  he  tell  you  that?  Really?  I  wonder  what 
you  must  have  thought  of  me?  " 

"Something  of  what  Mr.  Harum  did,  I  fancy,"  said 
John. 

"What  was  that?" 

"Pardon  me,"  was  the  reply,  "but  I  have  been 
snubbed  once  this  morning." 

She  gave  a  little  laugh.  "Mr.  Harum  and  I  are 
great '  neetups,'  as  he  says.  Is  l  neetups '  a  nice  word  ?  " 
she  asked,  looking  at  her  companion. 

"I  should  think  so  if  I  were  in  Mr.  Harum's  place," 
said  John.  "It  means  'cronies,'  I  believe,  in  his  dic- 
tionary." 

They  had  come  to  where  Freeland  Street  terminates 
in  the  Lake  Eoad,  which  follows  the  border  of  the  lake 


DAVID   HARUM 


307 


said 


7ry 


look 
feed 


to  the  north  and  winds  around  the  foot  of  it  to  the 
south  and  west. 

"Why  I"  exclaimed  Miss  Clara,  "there  comes  David. 
I  haven't  seen  him  this  summer." 

They  halted,  and  David  drew  up,  winding  the  reins 
about  the  whipstock  and  pulling  off  his  buckskin  glove. 

"How do  you  do,  Mr.  Harum  ?" 
said  the  girl,  putting  her  hand 
in  his. 

"How  air  ye,  Miss  Claricy?      ' 
Glad  to  see  ye  agin,"  he 
"I'm  settin'  up  a  little  ev' 
day  now,  an'  you  don't 
as  if  you  was  off  your 
much,  eh?" 

"No,"  she  replied, laugh- 
ing, "I'm  in  what  you  call 
pretty    fair    condi- 
tion, I  think." 

"Wa'al,  I  reckon," 
he  said,  looking  at 
hersmiling  face  with 
the  frankest  admira- 
tion. "Guess  you 
come  out  a  little 
finer  ev'ry  season,  don't  ye?  Hard  work  to  keep  ye 
out  o'  the  'free-fer-all'  class,  I  guess.  How's  all  the 
folks?" 

"Nicely,  thanks,"  she  replied. 

"That's  right,"  said  David. 

"How  is  Mrs.  Bixbee?"  she  inquired. 

"Wa'al,"  said  David  with  a  grin,  "I  ben  a  little 
down  in  the  mouth  lately  'bout  Polly— seems  to  be 


308  DAVID   HARUM 

fallin'  away  some— don't  weigh  much  more'n  I  do,  I 
guess "  ;  but  Miss  Clara  only  laughed  at  this  gloomy 
report. 

"How  is  my  horse  Kirby?"  she  asked. 

"Wa'al,  the  ole  bag-o'-bones  is  breathin'  yet,"  said 
David,  chuckling,  "but  he's  putty  well  wore  out— has 
to  lean  up  agin  the  shed  to  whicker.  Guess  I'll  have 
to  sell  ye  another  putty  soon  now.  Still,  what  the'  is 
left  of  him  's  's  good  's  ever  'twill  be,  an'  I'll  send  him 
up  in  the  mornin'."  He  looked  from  Miss  Clara  to 
John,  whose  salutation  he  had  acknowledged  with  the 
briefest  of  nods. 

"How'd  you  ketch  him?"  he  asked,  indicating  our 
friend  with  a  motion  of  his  head.  "Had  to  go  after 
him  with  a  four-quart  measure,  didn't  ye?  or  did  he 
let  ye  corner  him  I" 

"Mr.  Euston  caught  him  for  me,"  she  said,  laughing, 
but  coloring  perceptibly,  while  John's  face  grew  very 
red.  "I  think  I  will  run  on  and  join  my  sister,  and 
Mr.  Lenox  can  drive  home  with  you.  Good-by,  Mr. 
Harum.  I  shall  be  glad  to  have  Kirby  whenever  it  is 
convenient.  We  shall  be  glad  to  see  you  at  Lakelawn," 
she  said  to  John  cordially,  "whenever  you  can  come"  j 
and  taking  her  prayer-book  and  hymnal  from  him,  she 
sped  away. 

"Look  at  her  git  over  the  ground  ! "  said  David,  turn- 
ing to  watch  her  while  John  got  into  the  buggy. 
"Ain't  that  a  gait?" 

"She  is  a  charming  girl,"  said  John  as  old  Jinny 
started  off. 

"She's  the  one  I  told  you  about  that  run  off  with  my 
hoss,"  remarked  David,  "an'  I  alwus  look  after  him  fer 
her  in  the  winter," 


DAVID    HARUM  309 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  John.  "She  was  laughing  about 
it  to-day,  and  saying  that  you  and  she  were  great 
friends." 

"She  was,  was  she?"  said  David,  highly  pleased. 
"Yes,  sir,  that's  the  girl,  an',  scat  my—  !  if  I  was  thirty 
years  younger  she  c'd  run  off  with  me  jest  as  easy — an' 
I  dunno  but  what  she  could  anyway,"  he  added. 

"Charming  girl,"  repeated  John  rather  thoughtfully. 

"Wa'al,"  said  David,  "I  don't  know  as  much  about 
girls  as  I  do  about  some  things ;  my  experience  hain't 
laid  much  in  that  line,  but  I  wouldn't  like  to  take  a 
contract  to  match  her  on  any  limit.  I  guess,"  he  added 
softly,  "that  the  consideration  in  that  deal  'd  have  to 
be  'love  an'  affection.'  Git  up,  old  lady  !  "  he  exclaimed, 
and  drew  the  whip  along  old  Jinny's  back  like  a  caress. 
The  mare  quickened  her  pace,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
they  drove  into  the  barn. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

"WHERE  you  ben?  "  asked  Mrs.  Bixbee  of  her  brother 
as  the  three  sat  at  the  one-o'clock  dinner.  "I  see  you 
drivin'  off  somewheres." 

"Ben  up  the  Lake  Road  to  'Lizer  Howe's,"  replied 
David.  "He's  got  a  hoss  't  I've  some  notion  o'  buyin'." 

"Ain't  the'  week-days  enough,"  she  asked,  "to  do 
your  horse-tradin'  in  'ithout  breakin'  the  Sabbath  ?  " 

David  threw  back  his  head  and  lowered  a  stalk  of 
the  last  asparagus  of  the  year  into  his  mouth. 

"Some  o'  the  best  deals  I  ever  made,"  he  said,  "was 
made  on  a  Sunday.  Hain't  you  never  heard  the  sayin', 
'The  better  the  day,  the  better  the  deal ' ?  " 

"Wa'al,"  declared  Mrs.  Bixbee,  "the'  can't  be  no 
blessin'  on  money  that's  made  in  that  way,  an'  you'd  be 
better  off  without  it." 

"I  dunno,"  remarked  her  brother,  "but  Deakin  Per- 
kins might  ask  a  blessin'  on  a  hoss  trade,  but  I  never 
heard  of  it's  beiii'  done,  an'  I  don't  know  jest  how  the 
deakin  'd  put  it ;  it  'd  be  two  fer  the  deakin  an'  one  fer 
the  other  feller,  though,  somehow,  you  c'n  bet." 

"Humph!"  she  ejaculated.  "I  guess  nobody  ever 
did  ;  an'  I  sh'd  think  you  had  money  enough  an'  horses 
enough  an'  time  enough  to  keep  out  o'  that  bus'nis  on 
Sundays,  anyhow." 

"Wa'al,  wa'al,"  said  David,  "mebbe  I'll  swear  off  be- 
fore long,  an'  anyway  the'  wa'u't  no  blessin'  needed  on 
this  trade,  fer  if  you'll  ask  'Lizer  he'll  tell  ye  the'  wa'n't 
none  made.  'Lizer  's  o'  your  way  o'  thinkin'  on  the 
subjict." 


DAVID   HARUM  311 

"That's  to  his  credit,  anyway,"  she  asserted. 

"Jes'  so,"  observed  her  brother;  "I've  gen'ally  no- 
ticed that  folks  who  was  of  your  way  o'  thinkiii'  never 
made  no  mistakes,  an'  'Lizer  's  a  very  consistent  be- 
liever "  ;  whereupon  he  laughed  in  a  way  to  arouse 
both  Mrs.  Bixbee's  curiosity  and  suspicion. 

"I  don't  see  any  thin'  in  that  to  laugh  at,"  she  de- 
clared. 

"He,  he,  he,  he  ! "  chuckled  David. 

"Wa'al,  you  may  's  well  tell  it  one  time  's  another. 
That's  the  way,"  she  said,  turning  to  John  with  a  smile 
trembling  on  her  lips,  "'t  he  picks  at  me  the  hull  time." 

"I've  noticed  it,"  said  John.     "It's  shameful." 

"I  do  it  hully  fer  her  good,"  asserted  David,  with  a 
grin.  "If  it  wa'n't  fer  me  she'd  git  in  time  as  narrer 
as  them  seven-day  Babtists  over  to  Feeble — they  call 
'em  the  'narrer  Babtists.'  You've  heard  on  'em,  hain't 
you,  Polly?" 

"No,"  she  said,  without  looking  up  from  her  plate, 
"I  never  heard  on  'em,  an'  I  don't  much  believe  you 
ever  did  neither." 

"What ! "  exclaimed  David.  "You  lived  here  goin' 
on  seventy  year  an'  never  heard  on  'em  ?  " 

"David  Harum!"  she  cried,  "I  ain't  within  ten 
year—" 

"Hold  on,"  he  protested,  "dou't  throw  that  tea-cup. 
I  didn't  say  you  was,  I  only  said  you  was  goirf  on — an' 
about  them  people  over  to  Feeble,  they've  got  the 
name  of  the  'narrer  Babtists'  because  they're  so  narrer 
in  their  views  that  fourteen  on  'em  c'n  sit  side  an'  side 
in  a  buggy." 

This  astonishing  statement  elicited  a  laugh  even  from 
Aunt  Polly,  but  presently  she  said  : 


312 


DAVID   HARUM 


"  Wa'al,  I'm  glad  you  found  one  man  that  would  stan' 
you  off  on  Sunday." 

"Yes'm,"  said  her  brother,  "'Lizer  's  jes'  your  kind. 
I  knew  't  he'd  hurt  his  foot,  an'  prob'ly  couldn't  go 
to  meetin',  an'  sure  enough,  he  was  settin'  on  the  stoop, 
an'  I  drove  in  an'  pulled  up  in  the  lane  alongside.  We 


said  good-mornin'  an'  all  that,  an'  I  ast  after  the  folks, 
an'  how  his  foot  was  gettiii'  'long,  an'  so  on,  an'  finely 
I  says,  'I  see  your  boy  drivin'  a  hoss  the  other  day  that 
looked  a  little — f'm  the  middle  o'  the  road— as  if  he 
might  match  one  I've  got,  an'  I  thought  I'd  drive  up 
this  mornin'  an'  see  if  we -couldn't  git  up  a  dicker.' 
Wa'al,  he  give  a  kind  of  a  hitch  in  his  chair  as  if  his 
foot  hurt  him,  an'  then  he  says,  'I  guess  I  can't  deal 


DAVID  HARUM  313 

with  ye  to-day.  I  don't  never  do  no  bus'nis  on  Sun- 
day/ he  says. 

"'I've heard  you  was  putty  pertic'ler,'  I  says,  'but  I'm 
putty  busy  jest  about  now,  an'  I  thought  that  mebbe 
once  in  a  way,  an'  seein'  that  you  couldn't  go  to  meetin' 
anyway,  an'  that  I've  come  quite  a  ways  an'  don't  know 
when  I  c'n  see  you  agin,  an'  so  on,  that  mebbe  you'd 
think,  under  all  the  circumstances,  the'  wouldn't  be  no 
great  harm  in't — long  's  I  don't  pay  over  no  money,  et 
cetery,'  I  says. 

"'No,'  he  says,  shakin'  his  head  in  a  sort  o'  mournful 
way,  'I'm  glad  to  see  ye,  an'  I'm  sorry  you've  took  all 
that  trouble  fer  nothin',  but  my  conscience  won't  allow 
me,'  he  says,  'to  do  no  bus'nis  on  Sunday.' 

"'Wa'al,'  I  says,  'I  don't  ask  no  man  to  go  agin  his 
conscience,  but  it  wouldn't  be  no  very  glarin'  transgres- 
sion on  your  part,  would  it,  if  I  was  to  go  up  to  the 
barn  all  alone  by  myself  an'  look  at  the  hoss  ? '  I  c'd 
see,"  continued  Mr.  Harum,  "that  his  face  kind  o' 
brightened  up  at  that,  but  he  took  his  time  to  answer. 
'Wa'al,'  he  says  finely,  'I  don't  want  to  lay  down  no 
law  fer  you,  an'  if  you  don't  see  no  harm  in't,  I  guess 
the'  ain't  nothin'  to  prevent  ye.'  So  I  got  down  an' 
started  fer  the  barn,  an' — he,  he,  he ! — when  I'd  got 
about  a  rod  he  hollered  after  me,  'He's  in  the  end  stall,' 
he  says. 

"Wa'al,"  the  narrator  proceeded,  "I  looked  the  crit- 
ter over  an'  made  up  my  mind  about  what  he  was  wuth 
to  me,  an'  went  back  an'  got  in,  an'  drove  into  the  yard, 
an'  turned  round,  an'  drew  up  agin  'longside  the  stoop. 
'Lizer  looked  up  at  me  in  an  askin'  kind  of  a  way,  but 
he  didn't  say  anythin'. 

"'I  s'pose,'  I  says,  'that  you  wouldn't  want  me  to 


DAVID   HARUM 

say  any  thin'  more  to  ye,  an'  I  may  's  well  jog  along 
back.' 

"'Wa'al,'  he  says,  'I  can't  very  well  help  hearin'  ye, 
kin  I,  if  you  got  any  thin'  to  say  f ' 

"'Wa'al,'  I  says,  'the  hoss  ain't  exac'ly  what  I  ex- 
pected to  find,  nor  jes'  what  I'm  lookin'  fer  ;  but  I  don't 
say  I  wouldn't  'a'  made  a  deal  with  ye  if  the  price  had 
ben  right,  an'  it  hadn't  ben  Sunday.'  I  reckon,"  said 
David  with  a  wink  at  John,  "that  that  there  foot  o' 
hisn  must  'a'  give  him  an  extry  twinge  the  way  he 
wriggled  in  his  chair  ;  but  I  couldn't  break  his  lockjaw 
yit.  So  I  gathered  up  the  lines  an'  took  out  the  whip, 
an'  made  all  the  motions  to  go,  an'  then  I  kind  o' 
stopped,  an'  says,  'I  don't  want  you  to  go  agin  your 
princ'ples  nor  the  law  an'  gosp'l  on  my  account,  but 
the'  can't  be  no  harm  in  s'posin'  a  case,  can  the' ! '  No, 
he  allowed  that  s'posin'  wa'n't  jes'  the  same  as  doin'. 
'Wa'al,'  says  I,  'now  s'posin'  I'd  come  up  here  yestid'y 
as  I  have  to-day,  an'  looked  your  hoss  over,  an'  said  to 
you,  "What  price  do  you  put  on  him?"  what  do  you 
s'pose  you'd 'a' said?' 

"'Wa'al,'  he  said,  'puttin'  it  that  way,  I  s'pose  I'd  'a' 
said  one-seventy.' 

"'Yes,'  I  says,  'an'  then  agin,  if  I'd  said  that  he 
wa'n't  wuth  that  money  to  me,  not  bein'  jes'  what  I 
wanted — an'  so  he  ain't — but  that  I'd  give  one-forty, 
cash,  what  do  you  s'pose  you'd  'a'  said  ? ' 

"' Wa'al,'he  says,  givin'  a  hitch, '  of  course  I  don'tknow 
jes'  what  I  would  have  said,  but  I  guess?  he  says, '  't  I'd  'a' 
said,  "If  you'll  make  it  one-fifty  you  c'd  have  the  hoss." ' 

'"Wa'al,  now,'  I  says,  '  s'posin'  I  was  to  send  Dick 
Larrabee  up  here  in  the  mornin'  with  the  money,  what 
do  you  s'pose  you'd  do  ? ' 


DAVID   HARUM  315 

"'I  s'pose  I'd  let  Mm  go,'  says  'Lizer. 

'"  All  right/  I  says,  an'  off  I  put.  That  conscience  o' 
' Lizer' s,"  remarked  Mr.  Harum  in  conclusion,  "is  wuth 
its  weight  in  gold,  jest  about." 

"David  Harum,"  declared  Aunt  Polly,  "you'd  ort  to 
be  'shamed  o'  yourself." 

"Wa'al,"  said  David,  with  an  air  of  meekness,  "if 
I've  done  anythin'  I'm  sorry  for,  I'm  willin'  to  be 
forgi'n.  Now,  s'posiu'  — 

"I've  heard  enough  'bout  s'posin'  fer  one  day,"  said 
Mrs.  Bixbee  decisively,  "unless  it's  s'posin'  you  finish 
your  dinner  so's't  Sairy  c'n  git  through  her  work  some- 
time." 


CHAPTEE   XXXV 

AFTER  dinner  John  went  to  his  room  and  David  and 
his  sister  seated  themselves  on  the  "verandy."  Mr. 
Harum  lighted  a  cigar  and  enjoyed  his  tobacco  for  a 
time  in  silence,  while  Mrs.  Bixbee  perused,  with  rather 
perfunctory  diligence,  the  columns  of  her  weekly 
church  paper. 

"I  seen  a  sight  fer  sore  eyes  this  mornin',"  quoth 
David  presently. 

"What  was  that? "  asked  Aunt  Polly,  looking  up  over 
her  glasses. 

"Claricy  Verjoos  fer  one  part  on't,"  said  David. 

"The  Verjooses  hev  come,  hev  they?  Wa'al,  that's 
good.  I  hope  she'll  come  up  an'  see  me." 

David  nodded.  "An'  the  other  part  on't  was,"  he 
said,  "she  an'  that  young  feller  of  ourn  was  walkin' 
together,  an'  a  putty  slick  pair  they  made,  too." 

"Ain't  she  purty?"  said  Mrs.  Bixbee. 

"They  don't  make  'em  no  puttier,"  affirmed  David ; 
"an'  they  was  a  nice  pair.  I  couldn't  help  thinkin'," 
he  remarked,  "what  a  nice  hitch-up  they'd  make." 

"Guess  the'  ain't  much  chance  o'  that,"  she  observed. 

"No,  I  guess  not  either,"  said  David. 

"He  hain't  got  anythin'  to  speak  of,  I  s'pose,  an' 
though  I  reckon  she'll  hev  prop'ty  some  day,  all  that 
set  o'  folks  seems  to  marry  money,  an'  some  one's  alwus 
dyin'  an'  leavin'  some  on  'em  some  more.  The'  ain't 
nothin'  truer  in  the  Bible,"  declared  Mrs.  Bixbee 
with  conviction,  "'n  that  sayin'  thet  them  thet  has, 
gits." 


DAVID   HARUM  317 

"That's  seemin'ly  about  the  way  it  runs  in  gen'ral," 
said  David. 

"It  don't  seem  right,"  said  Mrs.  Bixbee,  with  her 
eyes  on  her  brother's  face.  "Now  there  was  all  that 
money  one  o'  Mis'  Elbert  Swayne's  relations  left  her 
last  year,  an'  Lucy  Scramm,  that's  poorer  'n  poverty's 
back  kitchin,  an'  the  same  relation  to  him  that  Mis' 
Swayne  was,  only  got  a  thousan'  dollars,  an'  the 
Swaynes  rich  already.  Not  but  what  the  thousan'  was 
a  Godsend  to  the  Scramms,  but  he  might  jest  as  well  'a' 
left  'em  comf'tibly  off  as  not,  'stid  of  pilin'  more  onto 
the  Swaynes  that  didn't  need  it." 

"Does  seem  kind  o'  tough,"  David  observed,  leaning 
forward  to  drop  his  cigar  ash  clear  of  the  verand^  floor, 
"but  that's  the  way  things  goes,  an'  I've  often  had  to 
notice  that  a  man'll  sometimes  do  the  foolishist  thing 
or  the  meanest  thing  in  his  hull  life  after  he's 
dead." 

"You  never  told  me,"  said  Mrs.  Bixbee,  after  a 
minute  or  two,  in  which  she  appeared  to  be  following 
up  a  train  of  reflection,  "much  of  anythin'  about  John's 
matters.  Hain't  he  ever  told  you  anythin'  more'n 
what  you've  told  me?  or  don't  ye  want  me  to  know? 
Didn't  his  father  leave  anythin'?" 

"The'  was  a  little  money,"  replied  her  brother,  blow- 
ing out  a  cloud  of  smoke,  "an'  a  lot  of  unlikely  chances, 
but  nothin'  to  live  on." 

"An'  the'  wa'n't  nothin'  for  't  but  he  had  to  come  up 
here  ?  "  she  queried. 

"He'd 'a'  had  to  work  on  a  salary  somewhere,  I  reck- 
on," was  the  reply.  "The'  was  one  thing,"  added  David 
thoughtfully  after  a  moment,  "that'll  mebbe  come  to 
somethin'  sometime,  but  it  may  be  a  good  while  fust, 


DAVID   HARUM 


an'  don't  ye  ever  let  on  to  him  nor  nobody  else  't  I 
ever  said  anythin'  about  it." 

"I  won't  open  my  head  to  a  livin'  soul,"  she  declared. 
"What  was  it?" 

"Wa'al,  I  don't  know  's  I  ever  told  ye,"  he  said, 
"but  a  good  many  years  ago  I  took  some  little  hand  in 
the  oil  bus'nis,  but  though  I  didn't 
git  in  as  deep  as  I  wish  now  't  I 
had,  I've  alwus  kept  up  a 
kind  of  int'rist  in  what  goes 
'-*> -*('-     on  in  that  line." 

"No,  I  guess  you  never 
told  me,"  she  said. 
"  Where  yougoin'  ?" 
as  he  got  out  of  his 
chair. 

"Goin'  to  git  my 
cap,"  he  answered. 
"Dum  the  dum 
things  !  I  don't  be- 
lieve the's  a 
fly  in  Freeland 
County  that 
hain't  danced 
the  wild  ka- 
chuky  on  my 
head  sence  we 
set  here.  Be 
I  much  specked?"  he  asked,  as  he  bent  his  bald  poll 
for  her  inspection. 

"Oh,  go  'long ! "  she  cried,  as  she  gave  him  a  laugh- 
ing push. 

"'Mongst  other  things,"  he  resumed,  when  he  had 


DAVID   HARUM  319 

returned  to  his  chair  and  relighted  his  cigar,  "the'  was 
a  piece  of  about  ten  or  twelve  hunderd  acres  of  land 
down  in  Pennsylvany  havin'  some  coal  on  it,  he  told  me 
he  understood,  but  all  the  timber,  ten  inch  an'  over,  'd 
ben  sold  off.  He  told  me  that  his  father's  head  clerk 
told  him  that  the  old  gentleman  had  tried  fer  a  long 
time  to  dispose  of  it ;  but  it  called  fer  too  much  to  de- 
velop it,  I  guess  j  't  any  rate,  he  couldn't,  an'  John's 
got  it  to  pay  taxes  on." 

"I  shouldn't  think  it  was  wuth  anythin'  to  him  but 
jest  a  bill  of  expense,"  observed  Mrs.  Bixbee. 

"'Tain't  now,"  said  David,  "an'  mebbe  won't  be  fer  a 
good  while  ;  still,  it's  wuth  something  an'  I  advised  him 
to  hold  onto  it  on  gen'ral  princ'ples.  I  don't  know 
the  pertic'ler  prop'ty,  of  course,"  he  continued,  "but 
I  do  know  somethin'  of  that  section  of  country, 
fer  I  done 
a  little 
prospectin' 
round  there 
myself  once 
on  a  time. 
Butitwa'n't 
in  the  oil 
territory 

them    days,    or   wa'n't 
known  to  be,  anyway." 

"But  it's  eatin'  itself  up  with  taxes,  ain't  it?"  ob- 
jected Mrs.  Bixbee. 

"Wa'al,"  he  replied,  "it's  free  an'  clear,  an'  the  taxes 
ain't  so  very  much — though  they  do  stick  it  to  an  out- 
side owner  down  there— an'  the  p'int  is  here :  I've 
alwus  thought  they  didn't  drill  deep  enough  in  that 


320  DAVID   HARUM 

section.  The'  was  some  little  traces  of  oil  the  time 
I  told  ye  of,  an'  I've  heard  lately  that  the's  some  talk 
of  a  move  to  test  the  territory  agin,  an',  if  anythin'  was 
to  be  found,  the  young  feller's  prop'ty  might  be  wuth 
somethin' ;  but,"  he  added,  "of  course  the'  ain't  no 
tellin'." 


CHAPTER   XXXVI 

"WELL,"  said  Miss  Verjoos,  when  her  sister  overtook 
her,  Mr.  Euston  having  stopped  at  his  own  gate,  "you 
and  your  latest  discovery  seemed  to  be  getting  on 
pretty  well  from  the  occasional  sounds  which  came  to 
my  ears.  What  is  he  like  ?  " 

"He's  charming  ! "  declared  Miss  Clara. 

"Indeed,"  remarked  her  sister,  lifting  her  eyebrows. 
"You  seem  to  have  come  to  a  pretty  broad  conclusion 
in  a  very  short  period  of  time.  'Charming'  doesn't 
leave  very  much  to  be  added  on  longer  acquaintance, 
does  it?" 

"Oh,  yes,  it  does,"  said  Miss  Clara,  laughing.  "There 
are  all  degrees  :  Charming,  very  charming,  most  charm- 
ing, and  perfectly  charming." 

"To  be  sure,"  replied  the  other.  "And  there  is  the 
descending  scale  :  Perfectly  charming,  most  charming, 
very  charming :  charming,  very  pleasant,  quite  nice, 
and,  oh,  yes,  well  enough.  Of  course  you  have  asked 
him  to  call?" 

"Yes,  I  have,"  said  Miss  Clara. 

"Don't  you  think  that  mamma—" 

"No,  I  don't,"  declared  the  girl,  with  decision.  "I 
know  from  what  Mr.  Euston  said,  and  I  know  from  the 
little  talk  I  had  with  him  this  morning,  from  his  man- 
ner and— je  ne  sais  quoi — that  he  will  be  a  welcome 
addition  to  a  set  of  people  in  which  every  single  one 
knows  just  what  every  other  one  will  say  on  any  given 
subject  and  on  any  occasion.  You  know  how  it  is." 

"Well,"  said  the  elder  sister,  smiling  and  half  shut- 


322  DAVID   HARUM 

ting  her  eyes  with  a  musing  look,  "I  think  myself  that 
we  all  know  each  other  a  little  too  well  to  make  our 
affairs  very  exciting.  Let  us  hope  the  new  man  will 
be  all  you  anticipate,  and,"  she  added  with  a  little 
laugh,  and  a  side  glance  at  her  sister,  "that  there  will 
be  enough  of  him.  to  go  round." 

It  hardly  needs  to  be  said  that  the  aristocracy  of 
Homeville  and  all  the  summer  visitors  and  residents 
devoted  their  time  to  getting  as  much  pleasure  and 
amusement  out  of  their  life  as  was  to  be  afforded  by 
the  opportunities  at  hand:  Boating,  tennis,  riding, 
driving ;  an  occasional  picnic,  by  invitation,  at  one  or 
the  other  of  two  very  pretty  waterfalls,  far  enough 
away  to  make  the  drive  there  and  back  a  feature ;  as 
much  dancing  in  an  informal  way  as  could  be  managed 
by  the  younger  people  ;  and  a  certain  amount  of  flirta- 
tion, of  course  (but  of  a  very  harmless  sort),  to  supply 
zest  to  all  the  rest.  But  it  is  not  intended  to  give  a 
minute  account  of  the  life  nor  to  describe  in  detail  all 
the  pursuits  and  festivities  which  prevailed  during  the 
season.  Enough  to  say  that  our  friend  soon  had  op- 
portunity to  partake  in  them  as  much  and  often  as  was 
compatible  with  his  duties.  His  first  call  at  Lakelawn 
happened  to  be  on  an  evening  when  the  ladies  were  not 
at  home,  and  it  is  quite  certain  that  upon  this,  the  oc- 
casion of  his  first  essay  of  the  sort,  he  experienced  a 
strong  feeling  of  relief  to  be  able  to  leave  cards  instead 
of  meeting  a  number  of  strange  people,  as  he  had 
thought  would  be  likely. 

One  morning,  some  days  later,  Peleg  Hopkins  came 
in  with  a  grin,  and  said,  "The's  some  folks  eout  in  front 
wants  you  to  come  eout  an'  see  'em." 

"Who  are  they?"  asked  John,  who  for  the  moment 


DAVID   HARUM  323 

was  in  the  back  room  and  had  not  seen  the  carriage 
drive  up. 

"The  two  Verjoos  gals,"  said  Peleg,  with  another 
distortion  of  his  freckled  countenance.  "One  on  'em 
hailed  me  as  I  was  comin'  in  and  ast  me  to  ast  you  to 
come  eout." 

John  laughed  a  little  as  he  wondered  what  their  feel- 
ing would  be  were  they  aware  that  they  were  denomi- 
nated as  the  "Verjoos  gals"  by  people  of  Peleg's 
standing  in  the  community. 

"We  were  so  sorry  to  miss  your  visit  the  other  even- 
ing/' said  Miss  Clara,  after  the  usual  salutations. 

John  said  something  about  the  loss  having  been  his 
own,  and  after  a  few  remarks  of  no  special  moment  the 
young  woman  proceeded  to  set  forth  her  errand. 

"Do  you  know  the  Bensons  from  Syrchester?"  she 
asked. 

John  replied  that  he  knew  who  they  were  but  had 
not  the  pleasure  of  their  acquaintance. 

"Well,"  said  Miss  Clara,  "they  are  extremely  nice 
people,  and  Mrs.  Benson  is  very  musical ;  in  fact,  Mr. 
Benson  does  something  in  that  line  himself.  They  have 
with  them  for  a  few  days  a  violinist,  Fairman  I  think 
his  name  is,  from  Boston,  and  a  pianist — what  was  it, 
Juliet?" 

"Schlitz,  I  think,"  said  Miss  Verjoos. 

"Oh,  yes,  that  is  it,  and  they  are  coming  to  the  house 
to-night,  and  we  are  going  to  have  some  music  in  an 
informal  sort  of  way.  We  shall  be  glad  to  have  you 
come,  if  you  can." 

"I  shall  be  delighted,"  said  John  sincerely.  "At 
what  time?" 

"Any  time  you  like,"  she  said  ;  "but  the  Bensons  will 


324  DAVID   HARUM 

probably  get  there  about  half  past  eight  or  nine 
o'clock." 

"Thank  you  very  much,  and  I  shall  be  delighted," 
he  repeated. 

Miss  Clara  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  with  a  hesi- 
tating air. 

"There  is  another  thing,"  she  said. 

"Yes?" 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  "I  may  as  well  tell  you  that  you 
will  surely  be  asked  to  sing.  Quite  a  good  many  people 
who  have  heard  you  in  the  quartet  in  church  are 
anxious  to  hear  you  sing  alone,  Mrs.  Benson  among 
them." 

John's  face  fell  a  little. 

"You  do  sing  other  than  church  music,  do  you  not!  " 
she  asked. 

"Yes,"  he  admitted,  "I  know  some  other  music." 

"Do  you  think  it  would  be  a  bore  to  you? " 

"No,"  said  John,  who  indeed  saw  no  way  out  of  it ; 
"I  will  bring  some  music,  with  pleasure,  if  you  wish." 

"That's  very  nice  of  you,"  said  Miss  Clara,  "and  you 
will  give  us  all  a  great  deal  of  pleasure." 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  smile. 

"That  will  depend,"  he  said,  and  after  a  moment, 
"Who  will  play  for  me  ? " 

"I  had  not  thought  of  that,"  was  the  reply.  "I 
think  I  rather  took  it  for  granted  that  you  could  play 
for  yourself.  Can't  you?" 

"After  a  fashion,  and  simple  things,"  he  said,  "but  on 
an  occasion  I  would  rather  not  attempt  it." 

The  girl  looked  at  her  sister  in  some  perplexity. 

"I  should  think,"  suggested  Miss  Verjoos,  speaking 
for  the  second  time,  "that  Mr.  or  Herr  Schlitz  would 


DAVID    HARUM  325 

play  your  accompaniments,  particularly  if  Mrs.  Benson 
were  to  ask  him ;  and  if  he  can  play  for  the  violin  I 
should  fancy  he  can  for  the  voice." 

"Very  well,"  said  John,  "we  will  let  it  go  at  that." 

As  he  spoke,  David  came  round  the  corner  of  the 
bank  and  up  to  the  carriage. 

"How  d'y'  do,  Miss  Verjoos1?  How  air  ye,  Miss 
Claricyf  "  he  asked,  taking  off  his  straw  hat  and  mop- 
ping his  face  and  head  with  his  handkerchief.  "Guess 
we're  goin'  to  lose  our  sleighin',  ain't  we  1 " 

"It  seems  to  be  going  pretty  fast,"  replied  Miss 
Clara,  laughing. 

"Yes'm,"  he  remarked,  "we  sh'll  be  scrapin'  bare 
ground  putty  soon  now  if  this  weather  holds  on. 
How's  the  old  hoss  now  you  got  him  agin?"  he  asked. 
"Seem  to  've  wintered  putty  well!  Putty  chipper,  is 
he?" 

"Better  than  ever,"  she  affirmed.  "He  seems  to  grow 
younger  every  year." 

"Come,  now,"  said  David,  "that  ain't  a-goin'  to  do. 
I  cal'lated  to  sell  ye  another  hoss  this  summer  anyway. 
Ben  dependin'  on't,  in  fact,  to  pay.  a  dividend.  The 
bankin'  bus'nis  has  been  so  neglected  since  this  feller 
come  that  it  don't  amount  to  much  any  more,"  and  he 
laid  his  hand  on  John's  shoulder,  who  colored  a  little 
as  he  caught  a  look  of  demure  amusement  in  the  somber 
eyes  of  the  elder  sister. 

"After  that,"  he  said,  "I  think  I  had  better  get  back 
to  my  neglected  duties,"  and  he  bowed  his  adieus. 

"No,  sir,"  said  Miss  Clara  to  David,  "you  must  get 
your  dividend  out  of  some  one  else  this  summer." 

"Wa'al,"  said  he,  "I  see  I  made  a  mistake  takin'  such 
good  care  on  him.  Guess  I'll  hev  to  turn  him  over  to 


326  DAVID   HARUM 

Dug  Robinson  to  winter  next  year.  Ben  havin'  a  little 
visit  with  John1?"  he  asked. 

Miss  Clara  colored  a  little,  with  something  of  the 
same  look  which  John  had  seen  in  her  sister's  face. 

"We  are  going  to  have  some  music  at  the  house  to- 
night, and  Mr.  Lenox  has  kindly  promised  to  sing  for 
us/'  she  replied. 

"He  has,  has  he?"  said  David,  full  of  interest. 
"Wa'al,  he's  the  feller  c'n  do  it  if  anybody  can.  We 
have  singin'  an'  music  up  t'  the  house  ev'ry  Sunday 
night— me  an'  Polly  an'  him— an'  it's  fine.  Yes,  ma'am, 
I  don't  know  much  about  music  myself,  but  I  c'n  beat 
time,  an'  he's  got  a  stack  o'  music  more'n  a  mile  high, 
an'  one  o'  the  songs  he  sings  '11  jest  make  the  windows 
rattle.  That's  my  fav'rit,"  averred  Mr.  Harum. 

"Do  you  remember  the  name  of  it?"  asked  Miss  Clara. 

"No,"  he  said ;  "John  told  me,  an'  I  guess  I'd  know 
it  if  I  heard  it ;  but  it's  about  a  feller  sittin'  one  day  by 
the  org'n  an'  not  feelin'  exac'ly  right — kind  o'  tired  an' 
out  o'  sorts,  an'  not  knowin'  jes'  where  he  was  drivin'  at 
— jes'  joggin'  'long  with  a  loose  rein  fer  quite  a  piece,  an' 
so  on  ;  an'  then,  by  an'  by,  strikin'  right  into  his  gait  an' 
goin'  on  stronger  'n'  stronger,  an'  finely  finishin'  up  with 
an  A — men  that  carries  him  quarter  way  round  the 
track  'fore  he  c'n  pull  up.  That's  my  fav'rit,"  Mr. 
Harum  repeated,  "'cept  when  him  an'  Polly  sings  to- 
gether, an'  if  that  ain't  a  show — pertic'lerly  Polly— I 
don't  want  a  cent.  No,  ma'am,  when  him  an'  Polly  gits 
good  an'  goin'  you  can't  see  'em  fer  dust." 

"I  should  like  to  hear  them,"  said  Miss  Clara,  laugh- 
ing, "and  I  should  particularly  like  to  hear  your  favor- 
ite, the  one  which  ends  with  the  Amen — the  very  large 
A-men." 


DAVID   HARUM  327 

"Seventeen  hands,"  declared  Mr.  Harum.  "Must 
you  be  goin'?  Wa'al,  glad  to  hev  seen  ye.  Polly's 
liopin'  you'll  come  an'  see  her  putty  soon." 

"I  will,"  she  promised.  "Give  her  my  love,  and  tell 
her  so,  please." 

They  drove  away  and  David  sauntered  in,  went  be- 
hind the  desks,  and  perched  himself  up  on  a  stool  near 
the  teller's  counter  as  he  often  did  when  in  the  office 
and  when  John  was  not  particularly  engaged. 

"Got  you  roped  in,  have  they?"  he  said,  using  his 
hat  as  a  fan.  "Scat  my—  !  but  ain't  this  a  ring-tail 
squealer  ?  " 

"It  is  very  hot,"  responded  John. 

"Miss  Claricy  says  you're  goin'  to  sing  fer  'em  up  to 
their  house  to-night." 

"Yes,"  said  John,  with  a  slight  shrug  of  the  shoul- 
ders, as  he  pinned  a  paper  strap  around  a  pile  of  bills 
and  began  to  count  out  another. 

"Don't  feel  very  fierce  fer  it,  I  guess,  do  ye?"  said 
David,  looking  shrewdly  at  him. 

"Not  very,"  said  John,  with  a  short  laugh. 

"Feel  a  little  skittish  'bout  it,  eh?"  suggested  Mr. 
Harum.  "Don't  see  why  ye  should— anybody  that  c'n 
put  up  a  tune  the  way  you  kin." 

"It's  rather  different,"  observed  the  younger  man, 
"singing  for  you  and  Mrs.  Bixbee  and  standing  up  before 
a  lot  of  strange  people." 

"H-m,  h-m,"  said  David,  with  a  nod  j  "diff  rence 
'tween  joggin'  along  on  the  road  an'  drivin'  a  fust  heat 
on  the  track ;  in  one  case  the'  ain't  nothin'  up,  an'  ye 
don't  care  whether  you  git  there  a  little  more  pre- 
viously or  a  little  less  ;  an'  in  the  other  the's  the  crowd, 
an'  the  judges,  an'  the  stake,  an'  your  record,  an'  mebbe 


328  DAVID   HARUM 

the  pool  box  into  the  barg'in,  that's  all  got  to  be  con- 
sidered. Feller  don't  mind  it  so  much  after  he  gits 
fairly  off,  but  thinkin'  oii't  beforehand  's  fidgity 
bus'nis." 

"You  have  illustrated  it  exactly,"  said  John,  laugh- 
ing, and  much  amused  at  David's  very  characteristic  as 
well  as  accurate  illustration. 

"My  ! "  exclaimed  Aunt  Polly,  when  John  came  into 
the  sitting-room  after  dinner  dressed  to  go  out,  "My  ! 
don't  he  look  nice?  I  never  see  you  in  them  clo'es. 
Come  here  a  minute,"  and  she  picked  a  thread  off  his 
sleeve  and  took  the  opportunity  to  turn  him  round  for 
the  purpose  of  giving  him  a  thorough  inspection. 

"That  wa'n't  what  you  said  when  you  see  me  in  my 
gold-plated  harniss,"  remarked  David,  with  a  grin. 
"You  didn't  say  nothin'  putty  to  me." 

"Humph !  I  guess  the's  some  difference,"  observed 
Mrs.  Bixbee  with  scorn,  and  her  brother  laughed. 

"How  was  you  cal'latin'  to  git  there?"  he  asked, 
looking  at  our  friend's  evening  shoes. 

"I  thought  at  first  I  would  walk,"  was  the  reply,  "but 
I  rather  think  I  will  stop  at  Robinson's  and  get  him  to 
send  me  over." 

"I  guess  you  won't  do  nothin'  o'  the  sort,"  declared 
David.  "Mike's  all  hitched  to  take  you  over,  an'  when 
you're  ready  jes'  ring  the  bell." 

"You're  awfully  kind,"  said  John  gratefully,  "but  I 
don't  know  when  I  shall  be  coming  home." 

"Come  back  when  you  git  a  good  ready,"  said  Mr. 
Harum.  "If  you  keep  him  an'  the  hoss  waitin'  a  spell, 
I  guess  they  won't  take  cold  this  weather." 


CHAPTER   XXXVII 

THE  Verjoos  house,  of  old  red  brick,  stands  about  a 
hundred  feet  back  from  the  north  side  of  the  Lake 
Koad,  on  the  south  shore  of  the  lake.  Since  its  original 
construction  a  porte-cochere  has  been  built  upon  the 
front.  A  very  broad  hall,  from  which  rises  the  stair- 
way with  a  double  turn  and  landing,  divides  the  main 
body  of  the  house  through  the  middle.  On  the  left,  as 
one  enters,  is  the  great  drawing-room ;  on  the  right  a 
parlor  opening  into  a  library  ;  and  beyond,  the  dining- 
room,  which  looks  out  over  the  lake.  The  hall  opens 
in  the  rear  upon  a  broad,  covered  veranda,  facing  the 
water,  with  a  flight  of  steps  to  a  lawn  which  slopes 
down  to  the  lake  shore,  a  distance  of  some  hundred  and 
fifty  yards. 

John  had  to  pass  through  a  little  flock  of  young 
people  who  stood  near  and  about  the  entrance  to  the 
drawing-room,  and  having  given  his  package  of  music 
to  the  maid  in  waiting,  with  a  request  that  it  be  put 
upon  the  piano,  he  mounted  the  stairs  to  deposit  his 
hat  and  coat,  and  then  went  down. 

In  the  south  end  of  the  drawing-room  were  some 
twenty  people  sitting  and  standing  about,  most  of  them 
the  elders  of  the  families  who  constituted  society  in 
Homeville,  many  of  whom  John  had  met,  and  nearly 
all  of  whom  he  knew  by  sight  and  name.  On  the 
edge  of  the  group,  and  half-way  down  the  room,  were 
Mrs.  Yerjoos  and  her  younger  daughter,  who  gave 
him  a  cordial  greeting ;  and  the  elder  lady  was  kind 
enough  to  repeat  her  daughter's  morning  assurances 


330  DAVID   HARUM 

of  regret  that  they  were  out  on  the  occasion  of  his 
call. 

"I  trust  you  have  been  as  good  as  your  word/'  said 
Miss  Clara,  "and  brought  some  music." 

"Yes,  it  is  on  the  piano,"  he  replied,  looking  across 
the  room  to  where  the  instrument  stood. 

The  girl  laughed.  "I  wish,"  she  said,  "you  could 
have  heard  what  Mr.  Harum  said  this  morning  about 
your  singing,  particularly  his  description  of  The  Lost 
Chord,  and  I  wish  that  I  could  repeat  it  just  as  he 
gave  it." 

"It's  about  a  feller  sittin'  one  day  by  the  org'n,"  came 
a  voice  from  behind  John's  shoulder,  so  like  David's  as 
fairly  to  startle  him,  "an'  notfeelin'  exac'ly  right — kind 
o'  tired  an'  out  o'  sorts,  an'  not  knOwin'  jes'  where  he 
was  drivin'  at — jes'  joggin'  along  with  a  loose  rein  fer 
quite  a  piece,  an'  so  on ;  an'  then,  by  an'  by,  strikin' 
right  into  his  gait  an'  goin'  on  stronger  an'  stronger, 
an'  finely  finishin'  up  with  an  A — men  that  carries 
him  quarter  way  round  the  track  'fore  he  c'n  pull 
up." 

They  all  laughed  except  Miss  Verjoos,  whose  gravity 
was  unbroken,  save  that  behind  the  dusky  windows  of 
her  eyes,  as  she  looked  at  John,  there  was  for  an  instant 
a  gleam  of  mischievous  drollery. 

"Good-evening,  Mr.  Lenox,"  she  said.  "I  am  very 
glad  to  see  you,"  and  hardly  waiting  for  his  response, 
she  turned  and  walked  away. 

"That  is  Juliet  all  over,"  said  her  sister.  "You 
would  not  think,  to  see  her  ordinarily,  that  she  was 
given  to  that  sort  of  thing,  but  once  in  a  while,  when 
she  feels  like  it— well— pranks !  She  is  the  funniest 
creature  that  ever  lived,  I  believe,  and  can  mimic  and 


DAVID   HARUM  331 

imitate  any  mortal  creature.  She  sat  in  the  carriage 
this  morning,  and  one  might  have  fancied  from  her 
expression  that  she  hardly  heard  a  word,  but  I  haven't 
a  doubt  that  she  could  repeat  every  syllable  that 
was  uttered.  Oh,  here  come  the  Bensons  and  their 
musicians." 

John  stepped  back  a  pace  or  two  toward  the  end  of 
the  room,  but  was  presently  recalled  and  presented  to 
the  newcomers.  After  a  little  talk  the  Beusons  settled 
themselves  in  the  corner  at  the  lower  end  of  the  room, 
where  seats  were  placed  for  the  two  musicians,  and  our 
friend  took  a  seat  near  where  he  had  been  standing. 
The  violinist  adjusted  his  folding  music-rest.  Miss 
Clara  stepped  over  to  the  entrance  door  and  put  up 
her  finger  at  the  young  people  in  the  hall.  "After  the 
music  begins,"  she  said,  with  a  shake  of  the  head,  "if  I 
hear  one  sound  of  giggling  or  chattering,  I  will  send 
every  one  of  you  young  heathen  home.  Remember 
now  !  This  isn't  your  party  at  all." 

"But,  Clara  dear,"  said  Sue  Tenaker  (aged  fifteen), 
"if  we  are  very  good  and  quiet  do  you  think  they 
would  play  for  us  to  dance  a  little  by  and  by  I " 

"Impudence!"  exclaimed  Miss  Clara,  giving  the 
girl's  cheek  a  playful  slap  and  going  back  to  her  place. 
Miss  Verjoos  came  in  and  took  a  chair  by  her  sister. 
Mrs.  Benson  leaned  forward  and  raised  her  eyebrows 
at  Miss  Clara,  who  took  a  quick  survey  of  the  room  and 
nodded  in  return.  Herr  Schlitz  seated  himself  on  the 
piano-chair,  pushed  it  a  little  back,  drew  it  a  little  for- 
ward to  the  original  place,  looked  under  the  piano  at 
the  pedals,  took  out  his  handkerchief  and  wiped  his  face 
and  hands,  and  after  arpeggioing  up  and  down  the  key- 
board, swung  into  a  waltz  of  Chopin's  (Opus  34,  Kum- 


332 


*  DAVID   HARUM 


ber  1),  a  favorite  of  our  friend's,  and  which  he  would 
have  thoroughly  enjoyed— for  it  was  splendidly  played — 
if  he  had  not  been  uneasily  apprehensive  that  he  might 
be  asked  to  sing  after  it.  And  while  on  some  accounts 
he  would  have  been  glad  of  the  opportunity  to  "have 
it  over,"  he  felt  a  cowardly  sense  of  relief  when  the 
violinist  came  forward  for  the  next  number.  There 
had  been  enthusiastic  ap- 
plause at  the  north  end  of 
/./  &/MMP  the  room,  and  more  or 

less  clapping  of  hands 
at  the  south  end,  but 
not  enough  to 
/   /  impel          the 
/  pianist  to  sup- 
plement     his 
performance 
at    the    time. 
The         violin 
number  was  so 
well    received 
that  Mr.  Fair- 
man   added  a 
little  minuet  of 

Boccherini's  without  accom- 
paniment, and.  then  John  felt  that 
his  time  had  surely  come.  But  he  had  to  sit,  drawing 
long  breaths,  through  a  Liszt  fantasy  on  themes  from 
Faust  before  his  suspense  was  ended  by  Miss  Clara,  who 
was  apparently  mistress  of  ceremonies,  and  who  said  to 
him,  "Will  you  sing  now,  Mr.  Lenox?" 

He  rose  and  went  to  the  end  of  the  room  where  the 
pianist  was  sitting.     "I  have  been  asked  to  sing,"  he 


DAVID   HARUM  333 

said  to  that  gentleman.  "Can  I  induce  you  to  be  so 
kind  as  to  play  for  me  f  " 

"I  am  sure  he  will/7  said  Mrs.  Benson,  looking  at 
Herr  Schlitz. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  blay  for  you  if  you  vant,"  he  said. 
"Vhere  is  your  moosic?"  They  went  over  to  the 
piano.  "Oh,  ho  !  Jensen,  Lassen,  Helmund,  Grieg — 
you  zing  dem  ?  " 

"Some  of  them/'  said  John. 

The  pianist  opened  the  Jensen  album.  "You  vant 
to  zing  one  of  dese  ?  "  he  asked. 

"As  well  as  anything,"  replied  John,  who  had 
changed  his  mind  a  dozen  times  in  the  last  ten  minutes 
and  was  ready  to  accept  any  suggestion. 

"Ver'  goot,"  said  the  other.  "Ve  dry  dis :  Lehn' 
deine  Wang'  an  meine  Wang'."  His  face  brightened 
as  John  began  to  sing  the  German  words.  In  a  measure 
or  two  the  singer  and  player  were  in  perfect  accord, 
and  as  the  former  found  his  voice  the  ends  of  his 
fingers  grew  warm  again.  At  the  end  of  the  song  the 
applause  was  distributed  about  as  after  the  Chopin 
waltz. 

"Sehr  schon!"  exclaimed  Herr  Schlitz,  looking  up 
and  nodding ;  "you  must  zing  zome  more,"  and  he 
played  the  first  bars  of  Marie,  am  Fenster  sitzest  du, 
humming  the  words  under  his  breath,  and  quite  oblivi- 
ous of  any  one  but  himself  and  the  singer. 

"Zierlich  !"  he  said  when  the  song  was  done,  reach- 
ing for  the  collection  of  Lassen.  "Mit  deinen  blauen 
Augen,"  he  hummed,  keeping  time  with  his  hands  ;  but 
at  this  point  Miss  Clara  came  across  the  room,  followed 
by  her  sister. 

"Mrs.  Tenaker,"  she  said,  laughing,  "asked  me  to  ask 


334  DAVID   HARUM 

you,  Mr.  Lenox,  if  you  wouldn't  please  sing  something 
they  could  understand." 

"I  have  a  song  I  should  like  to  hear  you  sing,"  said 
Miss  Verjoos.  "There  is  an  obbligato  for  violin  and  we 
have  a  violinst  here.  It  is  a  beautiful  song— Tosti's 
Beauty's  Eyes.  Do  you  know  it  ?  " 

"Yes,"  he  replied. 

"Will  you  sing  it  for  me? "  she  asked. 

"With  the  greatest  pleasure,"  he  answered. 

Once,  as  he  sang  the  lines  of  the  song,  he  looked  up. 
Miss  Verjoos  was  sitting  with  her  elbows  on  the  arm  of 
her  chair,  her  cheek  resting  upon  her  clasped  hands  and 
her  dusky  eyes  fastened  upon  his  face.  As  the  song 
concluded  she  rose  and  walked  away.  Mrs.  Tenaker 
came  over  to  the  piano  and  put  out  her  hand. 

"Thank  you  so  much  for  your  singing,  Mr.  Lenox," 
she  said.  "Would  you  like  to  do  an  old  woman  a 
favor?" 

"Very  much  so,"  said  John,  smiling  and  looking  first 
at  Mrs.  Tenaker  and  then  about  the  room,  "but  there 
are  no  old  women  here  as  far  as  I  can  see." 

"Very  pretty,  sir,  very  pretty,"  she  said,  looking  very 
graciously  at  him.  "Will  you  sing  Annie  Laurie  for 
me  ?  " 

"With  all  my  heart,"  he  said,  bowing.  He  looked 
at  Herr  Schlitz,  who  shook  his  head. 

"Let  me  play  it  for  you,"  said  Mrs.  Benson,  coming 
over  to  the  piano. 

"Where  do  you  want  it?"  she  asked,  modulating 
softly  from  one  key  to  another. 

"I  think  D  flat  will  be  about  right,"  he  replied. 
"Kindly  play  a  little  bit  of  it." 

The  sound  of  the  symphony  brought  most  of  even 


DAVID    HARUM  335 

the  young  people  into  the  drawing-room.  At  the  end 
of  the  first  verse  there  was  a  subdued  rustle  of  applause, 
a  little  more  after  the  second,  and  at  the  end  of  the 
song  so  much  of  a  burst  of  approval  as  could  be  pro- 
duced by  the  audience.  Mrs.  Benson  looked  up  into 
John's  face  and  smiled. 

"We  appear  to  have  scored  the  success  of  the  even- 
ing," she  said  with  a  touch  of  sarcasm. 

Miss  Clara  joined  them.  "  What  a  dear  old  song  that 
is  ! "  she  said.  "Did  you  see  Aunt  Charlie  "  (Mrs.  Ten- 
aker)  "wiping  her  eyes? — and  that  lovely  thing  of 
Tosti's !  We  are  ever  so  much  obliged  to  you,  Mr. 
Lenox." 

John  bowed  his  acknowledgments. 

"Will  you  take  Mrs.  Benson  out  to  supper?  There 
is  a  special  table  for  you  musical  people  at  the  east  end 
of  the  veranda." 

"Is  this  merely  a  segregation,  or  a  distinction?  "  said 
John  as  they  sat  down. 

"We  shall  have  to  wait  developments  to  decide  that 
point,  I  should  say,"  replied  Mrs.  Benson.  "I  suppose 
that  fifth  place  was  put  on  the  off  chance  that  Mr. 
Benson  might  be  of  our  party,  but,"  she  said,  with 
a  short  laugh,  "he  is  probably  nine  fathoms  deep  in 
a  flirtation  with  Sue  Tenaker.  He  shares  Arteinus 
Ward's  tastes,  who  said,  you  may  remember,  that  he 
liked  little  girls — big  ones  too." 

A  maid  appeared  with  a  tray  of  eatables,  and  pres- 
ently another  with  a  tray  on  which  were  glasses  and  a 
bottle  of  Pommery  sec.  "Miss  Clara's  compliments," 
she  said. 

"What  do  you  think  now?"  asked  Mrs.  Benson, 
laughing. 


336  DAVID   HARUM 

"Distinctly  a  distinction,  I  should  say,"  he  replied. 

"Das  ist  nicht  so  schlecht,"  grunted  Herr  Schlitz  as 
he  put  half  a  paU  into  his  mouth,  "bot  I  vould  brefer 
beer." 

"The  music  has  been  a  great  treat  to  me,"  remarked 
John.  "I  have  heard  nothing  of  the  sort  for  two 
years." 

"You  have  quite  contributed  your  share  of  the 
entertainment,"  said  Mrs.  Benson. 

"You  and  I  together,"  he  responded,  smiling. 

"You  haf  got  a  be-oodifool  woice,"  said  Herr  Schlitz, 
speaking  with  a  mouthful  of  salad,  "und  you  zing  lige 
a  moosician,  und  you  bronounce  your  vorts  very  goot." 

"Thank  you,"  said  John. 

After  supper  there  was  more  singing  in  the  drawing- 
room,  but  it  was  not  of  a  very  classical  order.  Some- 
thing short  and  taking  for  violin  and  piano  was  followed 
by  an  announcement  from  Herr  Schlitz. 

"I  zing  you  a  zong,"  he  said.  The  worthy  man  "bre- 
ferred  beer,"  but  had,  perhaps,  found  the  wine  quicker 
in  effect,  and  in  a  tremendous  bass  voice  he  roared  out, 
"Im  tiefen  Keller  sitz'  ich  hier,  auf  einem  Fass  voll  Ee- 
ben,"  which,  if  not  wholly  understood  by  the  audience, 
had  some  of  its  purport  conveyed  by  the  threefold 
repetition  of  "trinke  "  at  the  end  of  each  verse.  Then 
a  deputation  waited  upon  John,  to  ask  in  behalf  of  the 
girls  and  boys  if  he  knew  and  could  sing  Solomon  Levi. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  sitting  down  at  the  piano,  "if  you'll 
all  sing  with  me  "  ;  and  it  came  to  pass  that  that  classic, 
followed  by  Bring  Back  my  Bonnie  to  Me,  Paddy 
Duffy's  Cart,  There's  Music  in  the  Air,  and  sundry 
other  ditties  dear  to  all  hearts,  was  given  by  "the  full 
strength  of  the  company  "  with  such  enthusiasm  that 


DAVID   HARUM  337 

even  Mr.  Fairman  was  moved  to  join  in  with  his  violin  ; 
and  when  the  Soldier's  Farewell  was  given,  Herr  Schlitz 
would  have  sung  the  windows  out  of  their  frames  had 
they  not  been  open.  Altogether,  the  evening's  pro- 
gramme was  brought  to  an  end  with  a  grand  climax. 

"Thank  you  very  much,"  said  John  as  he  said  good- 
night to  Mrs.  Yerjoos.  "I  don't  know  when  I  have 
enjoyed  an  evening  so  much." 

"  Thank  you  very  much,"  she  returned  graciously. 
"You  have  given  us  all  a  great  deal  of  pleasure." 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Verjoos,  giving  her  hand  with  a 
mischievous  gleam  in  her  half-shut  eyes,  "I  was  en- 
chanted with  Solomon  Levi." 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

DAVID  and  John  had  been  driving  for  some  time  in 
silence.  The  elder  man  was  apparently  musing  upon 
something  which  had  been  suggested  to  his  mind.  The 
horses  slackened  their  gait  to  a  walk  as  they  began  the 
ascent  of  a  long  hill.  Presently  the  silence  was  broken 
by  a  sound  which  caused  John  to  turn  his  head  with  a 
look  of  surprised  amusement— Mr.  Harum  was  singing. 
The  tune,  if  it  could  be  so  called,  was  scaleless,  and 
these  were  the  words  : 

' '  Monday  raorrain'  I  married  me  a  wife, 
Thinkin1  to  lead  a  more  contented  life  ; 
Fiddlm'  an'  dancin'  the'  was  played, 
To  see  how  unhappy  poor  I  was  made. 

"  Tuesday  mornm\  ''bout  break  o'  day, 
While  my  head  on  the  piUer  did  lay, 
She  tuned  up  her  clack,  an'  scoZded  more 
Than  I  ever  heard  be/ore." 

"Never  heard  me  sing  before,  did  ye?  "  he  said,  look- 
ing with  a  grin  at  his  companion,  who  laughed  and 
said  that  he  had  never  had  that  pleasure.  "Wa'al, 
that's  all  't  I  remember  on't,"  said  David,  "an'  I 
dunno  's  I've  thought  about  it  in  thirty  year.  The'  was 
a  number  o'  verses  which  carried  'em  through  the  rest 
o'  the  week,  an'  ended  up  in  a  case  of  'sault  an'  battery, 
I  rec'lect,  but  I  don't  remember  jest  how.  Somethin' 
we  ben  sayin'  put  the  thing  into  my  head,  I  guess." 

"I  should  like  to  hear  the  rest  of  it,"  said  John, 
smiling. 


DAVID   HARUM  339 

David  made  no  reply  to  this,  and  seemed  to  be  turn- 
ing something  over  in  his  mind.  At  last  he  said  : 

"Mebbe  Polly's  told  ye  that  I'm  a  wid'wer." 

John  admitted  that  Mrs.  Bixbee  had  said  as  much  as 
that. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  David,  "I'm  a  wid'wer  of  long 
standin'." 

No  appropriate  comment  suggesting  itself  to  his 
listener,  none  was  made. 

"I  hain't  never  cared  to  say  much  about  it  to  Polly," 
he  remarked,  "though  fer  that  matter  Jim  Bixbee,  f  m 
all  accounts,  was  about  as  poor  a  shack  as  ever  was 
turned  out,  I  guess,  an'—" 

John  took  advantage  of  the  slight  hesitation  to  inter- 
pose against  what  he  apprehended  might  be  a  lengthy 
digression  on  the  subject  of  the  deceased  Bixbee  by 
saying : 

"You  were  quite  a  young  fellow  when  you  were 
married,  I  infer." 

"Two  or  three  years  younger  'n  you  be,  I  guess," 
said  David,  looking  at  him,  "an'  a  putty  green  colt  too 
in  some  ways,"  he  added,  handing  over  the  reins  and 
whip  while  he  got  out  his  silver  tobacco-box  and  helped 
himself  to  a  liberal  portion  of  its  contents.  It  was  plain 
that  he  was  in  the  mood  for  personal  reminiscences. 

"As  I  look  back  on't  now,"  he  began,  "it  kind  o' 
seems  as  if  it  must  'a'  ben  some  other  feller,  an'  yet  I 
remember  it  all  putty  dum'd  well  too — all  but  one 
thing,  an'  that  the  biggist  part  on't,  an'  that  is  how  I 
ever  come  to  git  married  at  all.  She  was  a  widdo'  at 
the  time,  an'  kep'  the  boardin'-house  where  I  was  livin'. 
It  was  up  to  Syrchester.  I  was  better-lookin'  them 
days  'n  I  be  now — had  more  hair,  at  any  rate — though," 
23 


340  DAVID   HARUM 

he  remarked  with  a  grin,  "I  was  alwus  a  better  goer 
than  I  was  a  looker.  I  was  doin'  fairly  well,"  he  con- 
tinued, "but  mebbe  not  so  well  as  was  thought  by 
some. 

"  Wa'al,  she  was  a  good-lookin'  woman,  some  older  'n 
I  was.  She  seemed  to  take  some  shine  to  me.  I'd 
roughed  it  putty  much  alwus,  an'  she  was  putty  clever 
to  me.  She  was  a  good  talker,  liked  a  joke  an'  a  laugh, 
an'  had  some  education,  an'  it  come  about  that  I  got 
to  beauin'  her  round  quite  a  consid'able,  an'  used  to 
go  an'  set  in  her  room  or  the  parlor  with  her  sometimes 

evenin's  an'  all 
that,  an'  I 
wouldn't  deny 
that  I  liked  it 
» putty  well." 

It  was  some 
minutes  before 
Mr.  Harum  resumed  his  narrative.  The  reins  were 
sagging  over  the  dashboard,  held  loosely  between  the 
first  two  fingers  and  thumb  of  his  left  hand,  while  with 
his  right  he  had  been  making  abstracted  cuts  at  the 
thistles  and  other  eligible  marks  along  the  roadside. 

"Wa'al,"  he  said  at  last,  "we  was  married,  an'  our 
wheels  tracked  putty  well  fer  quite  a  consid'able  spell. 
I  got  to  thinkin'  more  of  her  all  the  time,  an'  she  me, 
seemin'ly.  We  took  a  few  days  off  together  two  three 
times  that  summer,  to  Niag'ry,  an'  Saratogy,  an'  round, 
an'  had  real  good  times.  I  got  to  thinkin'  that  the 
state  of  matrimony  was  a  putty  good  institution. 
When  it  come  along  fall,  I  was  doin'  well  enough  so't 
she  could  give  up  bus'nis,  an'  I  hired  a  house  an'  we 
set  up  housekeepin'.  It  was  really  more  on  my  account 


DAVID   HARUM  341 

than  hern,  fer  I  got  to  kind  o'  feelin'  that  when  the 
meat  was  tough  or  the  pie  wa'n't  done  on  the  bottom 
that  I  was  'sociated  with  it,  an'  gen' ally  I  wanted  a 
place  of  my  own.  But,"  he  added,  "I  guess  it  was  a 
mistake,  fur  's  she  was  concerned." 

"Why?"  said  John,  feeling  that  some  show  of  inter- 
est was  incumbent. 

"I  reckon,"  said  David,  "'t  she  kind  o'  missed  the 
conrp'ny  an'  the  talk  at  table,  an'  the  goin's  on  gen7- 
ally,  an'  mebbe  the  work  of  runnin'  the  place — she  was 
a  great  worker— an'  it  got  to  be  some  diff  rent,  I  s'pose, 
after  a  spell,  settin'  down  to  three  meals  a  day  with  jest 
only  me  'stid  of  a  tableful,  to  say  nothin'  of  the  even- 
in's.  I  was  glad  enough  to  have  a  place  of  my  own, 
but  at  the  same  time  I  hadn't  ben  used  to  settin' 
round  with  nothin'  pertic'ler  to  do  or  say,  with  some- 
body else  that  hadn't  neither,  an'  I  wa'n't  then  nor 
ain't  now,  fer  that  matter,  any  great  hand  fer  readin'. 
Then,  too,  we'd  moved  into  a  diffrent  part  o'  the  town 
where  my  wife  wa'n't  acquainted.  Wa'al,  anyway,  fust 
things  begun  to  drag  some — she  begun  to  have  spells  of 
not  speakin',  an'  then  she  begun  to  git  notions  about 
me.  Once  in  a  while  I'd  hev  to  go  down-town  on  some 
bus'nis  in  the  evenin'.  She  didn't  seem  to  mind  it  at 
fust,  but  bom -by  she  got  it  into  her  head  that  the' 
wa'n't  so  much  bus'nis  goin'  on  as  I  made  out,  an' 
though  along  that  time  she'd  set  sometimes  mebbe 
the  hull  evenin'  without  sayin'  anythin'  more'n  yes  or 
no,  an'  putty  often  not  that,  yet  if  I  went  out  there'd 
be  a  flare-up  ;  an'  as  things  went  on  the'd  be  spells  fer 
a  fortni't  together  when  I  couldn't  any  time  of  day  git 
a  word  out  of  her  hardly,  unless  it  was  to  go  fer  me 
'bout  somethin'  that  mebbe  I'd  done  an'  mebbe  I 


342  DAVID   HARUM 

hadn't — it  didn't  make  no  diffrence.  An'  when  them 
spells  was  on,  what  she  didn't  take  out  o'  me  she  did 
out  o'  the  house — diggin'  an'  scrubbing  takin'  up  car- 
pits,  layin'  down  carpits,  shiftin'  the  furniture,  eatin' 
one  day  in  the  kitchin  an'  another  in  the  settin'-room, 
an'  sleepin'  'most  anywhere.  She  wa'n't  real  well  after 
a  while,  an'  the  wuss  she  seemed  to  feel,  the  fiercer  she 
was  fer  scrubbin'  an'  diggin'  an'  upsettin'  things  in 
gen'ral ;  an'  bom-by  she  got  so  she  couldn't  keep  a  hired 
girl  in  the  house  more'n  a  day  or  two  at  a  time.  She 
either  wouldn't  have  'em,  or  they  wouldn't  stay,  an' 
more'n  half  the  time  we  was  without  one.  This  can't 
int'rist  you  much,  can  it  ?  "  said  Mr.  Harum,  turning  to 
his  companion. 

"On  the  contrary,"  replied  John,  "it  interests  me 
very  much.  I  was  thinking,"  he  added,  "that  probably 
the  state  of  your  wife's  health  had  a  good  deal  to  do 
with  her  actions  and  views  of  things,  but  it  must  have 
been  pretty  hard  on  you  all  the  same." 

"Wa'al,  yes,"  said  David,  "I  guess  that's  so.  Her 
health  wa'n't  jes'  right,  an'  she  showed  it  in  her  looks. 
I  noticed  that  she  pined  an'  pindled  some,  but  I  thought 
the'  was  some  natural  criss-crossedniss  mixed  up  into 
it  too.  But  I  tried  to  make  allow'nces  an'  the  best  o' 
things,  an'  git  along  's  well 's  I  could  ;  but  things  kind 
o'  got  wuss  an'  wuss.  I  told  ye  that  she  begun  to  have 
notions  about  me,  an'  't  ain't  hardly  nec'sary  to  say 
what  shape  they  took,  an'  after  a  while,  mebbe  a  year  'n' 
a  half,  she  got  so't  she  wa'n't  satisfied  to  know  where 
I  was  nights — she  wanted  to  know  where  I  was  daytimes. 
Kind  o'  makes  me  laugh  now,"  he  observed,  "it  seems 
so  redic'lous ;  but  it  wa'n't  no  laughin'  matter  then. 
If  I  looked  out  o'  winder  she'd  hint  it  up  to  me  that  I 


DAVID   HARUM  343 

was  watchin'  some  woman.  She  grudged  me  even  to 
look  at  a  picture  paper  ;  an'  one  day  when  we  happened 
to  be  walkin'  together  she  showed  feelin'  about  one  o' 
them  wooden  Injun  women  outside  a  cigar  store." 

"Oh,  come  now,  Mr.  Harum,"  said  John;  laughing. 

"Wa'al,"  said  David,  with  a  short  laugh,  "mebbe  I 
did  stretch  that  a  little ;  but  's  I  told  ye,  she  wanted 
to  know  where  I  was  daytimes  well  's  nights,  an'  ev'ry 
once  'n  a  while  she'd  turn  up  at  my  bus'nis  place,  an' 
if  I  wa'n't  there  she'd  set  an'  wait  fer  me,  an'  I'd  either 
have  to  go  home  with  her  or  have  it  out  in  the  office. 
I  don't  mean  to  say  that  all  the  sort  of  thing  I'm  tellin' 
ye  of  kep'  up  all  the  time.  It  kind  o'  run  in  streaks ; 
but  the  streaks  kep'  comin'  oftener  an'  oftener,  an'  you 
couldn't  never  tell  when  the'  was  goin'  to  appear. 
Matters  'd  go  along  putty  well  fer  a  while,  an'  then,  all 
of  a  sudden,  an'  fer  nothin'  't  I  could  see,  the'  'd  come 
on  a  thunder- shower  'fore  you  c'd  git  in  out  o'  the  wet." 

"Singular,"  said  John  thoughtfully. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  David.  "Wa'al,  it  come  along  to  the 
second  spring,  'bout  the  first  of  May.  She'd  ben  more 
like  folks  fer  about  a  week  mebbe  'n  she  had  fer  a  long 
spell,  an'  I  begun  to  chirk  up  some.  I  don't  remember 
jest  how  I  got  the  idee,  but  f'm  somethin'  she  let  drop 
I  gathered  that  she  was  thinkin'  of  havin'  a  new  bunnit. 
I  will  say  this  for  her,"  remarked  David,  "that  she  was 
an  economical  woman,  an'  never  spent  no  money  jes' 
fer  the  sake  o'  spendin'  it.  Wa'al,  we'd  got  along  so 
nice  fer  a  while  that  I  felt  more'n  usual  like  pleasin' 
her,  an'  I  allowed  to  myself  that  if  she  wanted  a  new 
bunnit,  money  shouldn't  stand  in  the  way,  an'  I  set  out 
to  give  her  a  supprise." 

They  had  reached  the  level  at  the  top  of  the  long 


344  DAVID   HARUM 

hill  and  the  horses  had  broken  into  a  trot,  when  Mr. 
Harum's  narrative  was  interrupted  and  his  equanimity 
upset  by  the  onslaught  of  an  excessively  shrill,  active, 
and  conscientious  dog  of  the  "yellow"  variety,  which 
barked  and  sprang  about  in  front  of  the  mares  with 
such  frantic  assiduity  as  at  last  to  communicate  enough 
of  its  excitement  to  them  to  cause  them  to  bolt  forward 
on  a  run,  passing  the  yellow  nuisance,  which,  with  the 
facility  of  long  practice,  dodged  the  cut  which  David 
made  at  it  in  passing.  It  was  with  some  little  trouble 
that  the  horses  were  brought  back  to  a  sober  pace. 

"Dum  that  dum'd  dog ! "  exclaimed  David,  with 
fervor,  looking  back  to  where  the  object  of  his  execra- 
tions was  still  discharging  convulsive  yelps  at  the  re- 
treating vehicle,  "I'd  give  a  five-dollar  note  to  git  one 
good  lick  at  him.  I'd  make  him  holler  'pen-an'-ink' 
once!  Why  anybody's  willin'  to  have  such  a  dum'd, 
wuthless,  pestiferous  varmint  as  that  round  's  more'n 
I  c'n  understand.  I'll  bet  that  the  days  they  churn, 
that  critter,  unless  they  ketch  him  an'  tie  him  up  the 
night  before,  '11  be  under  the  barn  all  day,  an'  he's  jes' 
blowed  off  steam  enough  to  run  a  dog  churn  a  hull 
forenoon." 

Whether  or  not  the  episode  of  the  dog  had  diverted 
Mr.  Harum's  mind  from  his  previous  topic,  he  did  not 
resume  it  until  John  ventured  to  remind  him  of  it, 
with :  "You  were  saying  something  about  the  surprise 
for  your  wife." 

"That's  so,"  said  David.  "Yes,  wa'al,  when  I  went 
home  that  night  I  stopped  into  a  mil'nery  store,  an' 
after  I'd  stood  round  a  minute,  a  girl  come  up  an'  ast 
me  if  she  c'd  show  me  any  thin'." 

"'I  want  to  buy  a  bunnit,'  I  says,  an'  she  kind  o' 


DAVID   HARUM 


345 


laughed.   'No,'  I  says,  'it  ain't  fer  me,  it's  fer  a  lady/  I 
says  ;  an'  then  we  both  laughed. 

"'What  sort  of  a  bunnit  do  you  want? '  she  says. 

"' Wa'al,  I  dunno,'  I  says,  'this  is  the  fust  time  I  ever 
done  anythin'  in  the  bunnit  line.'  So  she  went  over  to 
a  glass  case  an'  took  one  out 
an'  held  it  up,  turnin'  it 
round  on  her  hand. 

"'Wa'al,'    I    says, 
'I    guess   it's   putty 
enough  fur 's  it  goes, 
but  the'  don't  seem 
to  be  much  of  any- 
thin'  to  it.     Hain't  ye 
got  somethin'  a  little 
bit  bigger  an' — ' 

"'Showier?' she  says.  'How    [f 
is  this  1 '  she  says,  doin'  the 
same  trick  with  another. 

"'  Wa'al,'  I  says,  'that  looks 
more  like  it,  but  I  had  an 
idee  that  the  A  1,  trible-extry  fine  article 
had  more  traps  on't,  an'  'most  any  one 
might  have  on  either  one  o'  them  you've  showed  me 
an'  not  attrac'  no  attention  at  all.  You  needn't  mind 
expense,'  I  says. 

"'Oh,  very  well,'  she  says,  'I  guess  I  know  what  you 
want,'  an'  goes  over  to  another  case  an'  fetches  out 
another  bunnit  twice  as  big  as  either  the  others,  an' 
with  more  notions  on't  than  you  c'd  shake  a  stick  at — 
flowers,  an'  gard'n  stuff,  an'  fruit,  an'  glass  beads,  an' 
feathers,  an'  all  that,  till  ye  couldn't  see  what  they  was 
fixed  on  to.  She  took  holt  on't  with  both  hands,  the 


346  DAVID   HARUM 

girl  did,  an'  put  it  onto  her  head,  an'  kind  o'  smiled 
an'  turned  round  slow  so't  I  c'd  git  a  gen'ral  view 
on't 

"'Style  all  right?'  I  says. 

"'The  very  best  of  its  kind,'  she  says. 

"'How  'bout  the  kind? '  I  says. 

"'The  very  best  of  its  style,'  she  says." 

John  laughed  outright.  David  looked  at  him  for  a 
moment  with  a  doubtful  grin. 

"She  was  a  slick  one,  wa'n't  she?"  he  said.  "What 
a  hoss  trader  she  would  'a'  made  !  I  didn't  ketch  on  at 
the  time,  but  I  rec'lected  afterward.  Wa'al,"  he  re- 
sumed, after  this  brief  digression,  "'how  much  is  it? '  I 
says. 

"'Fifteen  dollars,'  she  says. 

"'What?'  I  says.  'Scat  my—  !  I  c'd  buy  head  rig- 
gin'  enough  to  last  me  ten  years  fer  that.' 

'"We  couldn't  sell  it  for  less,'  she  says. 

"'S'posin'  the  lady  't  I'm  buyin'  it  fer  don't  jest  like 
it,'  I  says,  'can  you  alter  it  or  swap  somethin'  else  for 
it?' 

"'Cert'nly,  within  a  reasonable  time,'  she  says. 

'"Wa'al,  all  right,'  I  says,  'do  her  up.'  An'  so  she 
wrapped  the  thing  round  with  soft  paper  an'  put  it  in 
a  box,  an'  I  paid  for't  an'  moseyed  along  up  home, 
feelin'  that  ev'ry  man,  woman,  an'  child  had  their  eyes 
on  my  parcel,  but  thinkin'  how  tickled  my  wife  would 
be." 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

THE  road  they  were  on  was  a  favorite  drive  with  the 
two  men,  and  at  the  point  where  they  had  now  arrived 
David  always  halted  for  a  look  back  and  down  upon  the 
scene  below  them— to  the  south,  beyond  the  interven- 
ing fields,  bright  with  maturing  crops,  lay  the  village  ; 
to  the  west  the  blue  lake,  winding  its  length  like  a 
broad  river,  and  the  river  itself  a  silver  ribbon,  till  it 
was  lost  beneath  the  southern  hills. 

Neither  spoke.  For  a  few  minutes  John  took  in  the 
scene  with  the  pleasure  it  always  afforded  him,  and 
then  glanced  at  his  companion,  who  usually  had  some 
comment  to  make  upon  anything  which  stirred  his 
admiration  or  interest.  He  was  gazing,  not  at  the 
landscape,  but  apparently  at  the  top  of  the  dashboard. 
"Ho,  hum,"  he  said,  straightening  the  reins,  with  a 
"C'lk,"  to  the  horses,  and  they  drove  along  for  a  while 
in  silence— so  long,  in  fact,  that  our  friend,  while  aware 
that  the  elder  man  did  not  usually  abandon  a  topic 
until  he  had  "had  his  say  out,"  was  moved  to  suggest 
a  continuance  of  the  narrative  which  had  been  rather 


348  DAVID   HARUM 

abruptly  broken  off,  and  in  which  he  had  become  con- 
siderably interested. 

"Was  your  wife  pleased?"  he  asked  at  last. 

"Where  was  I?"  asked  the  other  in  return. 

"You  were  on  your  way  home  with  your  purchase," 
was  the  reply. 

"Oh,  yes,"  Mr.  Harum  resumed.  "It  was  a  little 
after  tea-time  when  I  got  to  the  house,  an'  I  thought 
prob'ly  I'd  find  her  in  the  settin'-room  waitin'  fer  me ; 
but  she  wa'n't,  an'  I  went  up  to  the  bedroom  to  find 
her,  feelin'  a  little  less  sure  o'  things.  She  was  settin' 
lookin'  out  o'  winder  when  I  come  in,  an'  when  I 
spoke  to  her  she  didn't  give  me  no  answer  except  to 
say,  lookin'  up  at  the  clock,  '  What's  kept  ye  like  this? ' 

111  Little  matter  o'  bus'nis,'  I  says,  lookin'  as  smilin' 
's  I  knew  how,  an'  holdin'  the  box  behind  me. 

"'What  you  got  there?'  she  says,  sluin'  her  head 
round  to  git  a  sight  at  it. 

'"  Little  matter  o'  bus'nis,'  I  says  agin,  bringin'  the 
box  to  the  front  an'  feelin'  my  face  straighten  out  's  if 
you'd  run  a  flat-iron  over  it.  She  seen  the  name  on 
the  paper. 

"'You  ben  spendin'  your  time  there,  have  ye?'  she 
says,  settin'  up  in  her  chair  an'  pointin'  with  her  finger 
at  the  box.  ( Thai's  where  you  ben  the  last  half-hour, 
hangin'  round  with  them  minxes  in  Mis'  Shoolbred's. 
What's  in  that  box?'  she  says,  with  her  face  a-blazin'. 

"'Now,  Lizy,'  I  says,  'I  wa'n't  there  ten  minutes  if 
I  was  that,  an'  I  ben  buyin'  you  a  bunnit.' 

"'  You — ben — buyin1 — me — a— bunnit  f '  she  says,  stif- 
nin'  up  stiffer  'n  a  stake. 

"'Yes,'  I  says,  'I  heard  you  say  somethin'  'bout  a 
spring  bunnit,  an'  I  thought,  seein'  how  economicle 


"An'  flung  it  slap  in  my  face.' 


DAVID   HARUM  349 

you  was,  that  I'd  buy  you  a  nicer  one  'n  mebbe  you'd 
feel  like  yourself.  I  thought  it  would  please  ye,'  I 
says,  tryin'  to  rub  her  the  right  way. 

"'Let  me  see  it,'  she  says,  in  a  voice  dryer  'n  a  lime- 
burner's  hat,  pressin'  her  lips  together  an'  reachin'  out 
fer  the  box.  Wa'al,  sir,  she  snapped  the  string  with  a 
jerk  an'  sent  the  cover  skimmin'  across  the  room,  an' 
then,  as  she  hauled  the  parcel  out  of  the  box,  she  got 
up  onto  her  feet.  Then  she  tore  the  paper  off  on't  an' 
looked  at  it  a  minute,  an'  then  took  it  'tween  her 
thumb  an'  finger,  like  you  hold  up  a  dead  rat  by  the 
tail,  an'  held  it  off  at  the  end  of  her  reach,  an'  looked 
it  all  over,  with  her  face  gettin'  even  redder  if  it  could. 
Finely  she  says,  in  a  voice  'tween  a  whisper  'n'  a 
choke : 

"' What'd  you  pay  fer  the  thing?' 

tlt  Fifteen  dollars,'  I  says. 

<" Fifteen  dollars?'  she  says. 

"'Yes,'  I  says,  'don't  ye  like  it?' 

"Wa'al,"  said  David,  "she  never  said  a  word.  She 
drawed  in  her  arm  an'  took  holt  of  the  bunnit  with  her 
left  hand,  an'  fust  she  pulled  off  one  thing  an'  dropped 
it  on  the  floor,  fur  off  as  she  c'd  reach,  an'  then  another, 
an'  then  another,  an'  then,  by  gum  !  she  went  at  it  with 
both  hands  jest  as  fast  as  she  could  work  'em,  an'  in 
less  time  'n  I'm  tellin'  it  to  ye  she  picked  the  thing 
cleaner  'n  any  chicken  you  ever  see,  an'  when  she  got 
down  to  the  carkis  she  squeezed  it  up  between  her  two 
hands,  give  it  a  wring  an'  a  twist  like  it  was  a  wet  dish- 
towel,  an'  flung  it  slap  in  my  face.  Then  she  made  a 
half-turn,  throwing  back  her  head  an'  grabbin'  into  her 
hair,  an'  give  the  awfulest  screechin'  laugh — one 
screech  after  another  that  ye  c'd  'a'  heard  a  mile— an' 


350  DAVID  HARUM 

then  throwed  herself  face  down  on  the  bed,  screamin' 
an'  kickin'.  Wa'al,  sir,  if  I  wa'n't  at  my  wits'  end,  you 
c'n  have  my  watch  an'  chain. 

"She  wouldn't  let  me  touch  her  no  way,  but,  as  luck 
had  it,  it  was  one  o'  the  times  when  we  had  a  hired 
girl,  an'  hearin'  the  noise  she  come  gallopin'  up  the 
stairs.  She  wa'n't  a  young  girl,  an'  she  had  a  face 
humbly  'nough  to  keep  her  awake  nights,  but  she  had 
some  sense,  an' — l  You'd  bether  run  fer  the  docther,' 
she  says,  when  she  see  the  state  my  wife  was  in.  You 
better  believe  I  done  the  heat  of  my  life,"  said  David, 
"an'  more  luck,  the  doctor  was  home  an'  jes'  finishin' 
his  tea.  His  house  an'  office  wa'n't  but  two  three 
blocks  off,  an'  in  about  a  few  minutes  me  an'  him  an' 
his  bag  was  leggin'  it  fer  my  house,  though  I  noticed 
he  didn't  seem  to  be  'n  as  much  of  a  twitter  's  I  was. 
He  ast  me  more  or  less  questions,  an'  jest  as  we  got  to 
the  house  he  says  : 

"'Has  your  wife  had  anythin'  to  'larm  or  shock  her 
this  evenin'  ? ' 

"'Nothin'  't  I  know  on,'  I  says,  "cept  I  bought  her  a 
new  bunnit  that  didn't  seem  to  come  quite  up  to  her 
idees.'  At  that,"  remarked  Mr.  Harum,  "he  give  me  a 
funny  look,  an'  we  went  in  an'  upstairs. 

"The  hired  girl,"  he  proceeded,  "had  got  her  quieted 
down  some,  but  when  we  went  in  she  looked  up,  an' 
seein'  me,  set  up  another  screech,  an'  he  told  me  to  go 
downstairs  an'  he'd  come  down  putty  soon,  an'  after  a 
while  he  did. 

"'Wa'al?'  I  says. 

"'She's  quiet  fer  the  present,'  he  says,  takin'  a  pad  o' 
paper  out  o'  his  pocket,  an'  writin'  on  it. 

"'Do  you  know  Mis'  Jones,  your  next-door  neigh- 


DAVID   HARUM  351 

bor? '  he  says.  I  allowed  't  I  had  a  speakin'  acquain- 
tance with  her. 

"'Wa'al,'  he  says,  'fust,  you  step  in  an'  tell  her  I'm 
here  an'  want  to  see  her,  and  ast  her  if  she  won't  come 
right  along ;  an'  then  you  go  down  to  my  office  an' 
have  these  things  sent  up,  an'  then,'  he  says,  'you  go 
down-town  an'  send  this' — handin'  me  a  note  that  he'd 
wrote  an'  put  in  an  envelope — 'up  to  the  hospital — 
better  send  it  up  with  a  hack,  or,  better  yet,  go  your- 
self,' he  says,  'an'  hurry.  You  can't  be  no  use  here,' 
he  says.  '  I'll  stay,  but  I  want  a  nurse  here  in  an  hour, 
an'  less  if  possible.'  I  was  putty  well  scared,"  said 
David,  "by  all  that,  an'  I  says,  'Lord,'  I  says,  'is  she  as 
bad  off  as  that  ?  What  is  it  ails  her  ! ' 

"'Don't  you  know?'  says  the  doc,  givin'  me  a  queer 
look. 

"'No,'  I  says,  'she  hain't  ben  fust-rate  fer  a  spell 
back,  but  I  couldn't  git  nothin'  out  of  her  what  was 
the  matter,  an'  don't  know  what  pertic'ler  thing  ails 
her  now,  unless  it's  that  dum'd  bunnit,'  I  says. 

"At  that  the  doctor  laughed  a  little,  kind  as  if  he 
couldn't  help  it. 

"'I  don't  think  that  was  hully  to  blame,'  he  says; 
'may  have  hurried  matters  up  a  little — somethin'  that 
was  liable  to  happen  any  time  in  the  next  two  months.' 

'"You  don't  mean  it?'  I  says. 

"'Yes,'  he  says.  ' Now  you  git  out  as  fast  as  you  can. 
Wait  a  minute,'  he  says.  '  How  old  is  your  wife  ? ' 

"'F'm  what  she  told  me  'fore  we  was  married,'  I  says, 
'she's  thirty-one.' 

"'Oh!'  he  says,  raisin'  his  eyebrows.  'All  right; 
hurry  up,  now.' 

"I  dusted  around  putty  lively,  an'  inside  of  an  hour 


352  DAVID   HARUM 

was  back  with  the  nurse,  an'  jest  after  we  got  inside 
the  door—"  David  paused  thoughtfully  for  a  moment 
and  then,  lowering  his  tone  a  little,  "jest  as  we  got 
inside  the  front  door,  a  door  upstairs  opened  an'  I  heard 
a  little  '  Waa !  waa  ! >  like  it  was  the  leetlist  kind  of  a 
new  lamb — an'  I  tell  you,"  said  David,  with  a  little 
quaver  in  his  voice,  and  looking  straight  over  the  off 
horse's  ears,  "nothin'  't  I  ever  heard  before  nor  since 
ever  fetched  me,  right  where  I  lived,  as  that  did.  The 
nurse  she  made  a  dive  fer  the  stairs,  wavin'  me  back 
with  her  hand,  an'  I — wa'al — I  went  into  the  settin'- 
room,  an' — wa'al— ne'  mind. 

"I  dunno  how  long  I  set  there  list'nin'  to  'em  movin' 
round  overhead,  an'  wonderin'  what  was  goin'  on  ;  but 
finely  I  heard  a  step  on  the  stair  an'  I  went  out  into 
the  entry,  an'  it  was  Mis'  Jones.  '  How  be  they  ? '  I  says. 

"'We  don't  quite  know  yet,'  she  says.  'The  little 
boy  is  a  nice  formed  little  feller,'  she  says,  'an'  them 
childern  very  often  grow  up,  but  he  is  very  little,'  she 
says. 

iil  An'  how  'bout  my  wife?  '  I  says. 

"'Wa'al,'  she  says,  'we  don't  know  jes'  yet,  but  she 
is  quiet  now,  an'  we'll  hope  fer  the  best.  If  you  want 
me,'  she  says,  'I'll  come  any  time,  night  or  day,  but  I 
must  go  now.  The  doctor  will  stay  all  night,  an'  the 
nurse  will  stay  till  you  c'n  git  some  one  to  take  her 
place,'  an'  she  went  home,  an',"  declared  David,  "you've 
hearn  tell  of  the  'salt  of  the  earth,'  an'  if  that  woman 
wa'n't  more  on't  than  a  hoss  c'n  draw  downhill,  the' 
ain't  no  such  thing." 

"Did  they  live?"  asked  John  after  a  brief  silence, 
conscious  of  the  bluntness  of  his  question,  but  curious 
as  to  the  sequel. 


DAVID   HARUM  353 

"The  child  did,"  replied  David  j  "not  to  grow  up, 
but  till  he  was  'twixt  six  an'  seven  ;  but  my  wife  never 
left  her  bed,  though  she  lived  three  four  weeks.  She 
never  seemed  to  take  no  int'rist  in  the  little  feller,  nor 
nothin'  else  much  ;  but  one  day — it  was  Sunday,  long  to 
the  last— she  seemed  a  little  more  chipper  'n  usual.  I 
was  settin'  with  her,  an'  I  said  to  her  how  much  better 
she  seemed  to  be,  tryin'  to  chirk  her  up. 

"'No,'  she  says,  'I  ain't  goin'  to  live.' 

"'Don't  ye  say  that,'  I  says. 

"'No,'  she  says,  'I  ain't,  an'  I  don't  care.' 

"I  didn't  know  jest  what  to  say,  an'  she  spoke  agin  : 

"'I  want  to  tell  you,  Dave,'  she  says,  'that  you've 
ben  good  an'  kind  to  me.' 

"'I've  tried  to,'  I  says,  'an'  Lizy,'  I  says,  'I'll  never 
fergive  myself  about  that  bunnit,  long  's  I  live.' 

'"That  hadn't  really  nothin'  to  do  with  it,'  she  says, 
'an'  you  meant  all  right,  though,'  she  says,  almost  in  a 
whisper,  an'  the'  came  across  her  face  not  a  smile  ex- 
ac'ly,  but  somethin'  like  a  little  riffle  on  a  piece  o'  still 
water,  '  that  bunnit  was  enough  to  kill  'most  cww/body.' " 


CHAPTEE  XL 


JOHN  leaned  out  of  the  buggy  and  looked  back  along 
the  road,  as  if  deeply  interested  in  observing  something 
which  had  attracted  his  attention,  and  David's  face 
worked  oddly  for  a  moment. 

Turning  south  in  the  direction  of 
the  village,  they  began  the  descent  of 
a  steep  hill,  and  Mr.  Ha- 
rum,  careful  of 
loose  stones, 
gave  all  his 
attention  to 
his  driving. 
?T  Our  friend,  re- 
specting  his 
vigilance,  for- 
'  bore  to  say 
anything  which  might  distract  his  attention  until  they 
reached  level  ground,  and  then,  "You  never  married 
again  1 "  he  queried. 

"No,"  was  the  reply.  "My  matrymonial  experience 
was  l  brief  an'  to  the  p'int,'  as  the  sayin'  is." 

"And  yet,"  urged  John,  "you  were  a  young  man,  and 
I  should  have  supposed — " 

"Wa'al,"  said  David,  breaking  in  and  emitting  his 
chuckling  laugh,  "I  allow 't  mebbe  I  sometimes  thought 
on't,  an'  once,  about  ten  year  after  what  I  ben  tellin' 
ye,  I  putty  much  made  up  my  mind  to  try  another 
hitch-up.  The'  was  a  woman  that  I  seen  quite  a  good 
deal  of,  an'  liked  putty  well,  an'  I  had  some  grounds 


DAVID   HARUM  355 

fer  thinkin'  't  she  wouldn't  show  me  the  door  if  I  was 
to  ask  her.  In  fact,  I  made  up  my  mind  I  would  take 
the  chances,  an'  one  night  I  put  on  my  best  bib  an' 
tucker  an'  started  fer  her  house.  I  had  to  go  'cross  the 
town  to  where  she  lived,  and  the  farther  I  walked  the 
fiercer  I  got— havin'  made  up  my  mind— so't  putty 
soon  I  was  travelin'  's  if  I  was  'fraid  some  other  feller' d 
git  there  'head  o'  me.  Wa'al,  it  was  Sat'day  night,  an' 
the  stores  was  all  open,  an'  the  streets  was  full  o'  people, 
an'  I  had  to  pull  up  in  the  crowd  a  little,  an'  I  don't 
know  how  it  happened  in  pertic'ler,  but  fust  thing  I 
knew  I  run  slap  into  a  woman  with  a  ban'box,  an' 
when  I  looked  round,  there  was  a  mil'nery  store  in  full 
blast  an'  winders  full  o'  bunnits.  Wa'al,  sir,  do  you 
know  what  I  done !  Ye  don't.  Wa'al,  the'  was  a  hoss- 
car  passin'  that  run  three  mile  out  in  the  country  in  a 
diffrent  direction  f  m  where  I  started  fer,  an'  I  up  an' 
got  onto  that  car,  an'  rode  the  length  o'  that  road,  an' 
got  off  an'  walked  back— an'  I  never  went  near  her  house 
f  m  that  day  to  this,  an'  that,"  said  David,  "was  the 
nearest  I  ever  come  to  havin'  another  pardner  to  my 
joys  an'  sorro's." 

"That  was  pretty  near,  though,"  said  John,  laugh- 
ing. 

"Wa'al,"  said  David,  "mebbe  Prov'dence  might  'a' 
had  some  other  plan  fer  stoppin'  me  'fore  I  smashed 
the  hull  rig,  if  I  hadn't  run  into  the  mil'nery  shop,  but 
as  it  was,  that  fetched  me  to  a  stan'still,  an'  I  never 
started  to  run  agin." 

They  drove  on  for  a  few  minutes  in  silence,  which 
John  broke  at  last  by  saying,  "I  have  been  wondering 
how  you  got  on  after  your  wife  died  and  left  you  with 
a  little  child." 
24 


356  DAVID   HARUM 

"That  was  where  Mis'  Jones  come  in,"  said  David. 
"Of  course  I  got  the  best  nurse  I  could,  an'  Mis'  Jones  'd 
run  in  two  three  times  ev'ry  day  an'  see  't  things  was 
goin'  on  as  right  's  they  could ;  but  it  come  on  that  I 
had  to  be  away  f  m  home  a  good  deal,  an'  finely,  come 
fall,  I  got  the  Joneses  to  move  into  a  bigger  house, 
where  I  could  have  a  room,  an'  fixed  it  up  with  Mis' 
Jones  to  take  charge  o'  the  little  feller  right  along. 
She  hadn't  but  one  child,  a  girl  of  about  thirteen,  an' 
had  lost  two  little  ones,  an'  so  between  havin'  took  to 
my  little  mite  of  a  thing  f  m  the  fust,  an'  my  makin'  it 
wuth  her  while,  she  was  willin',  an'  we  went  on  that 
way  till — the'  wa'n't  no  further  occasion  fur  's  he  was 
concerned,  though  I  lived  with  them  a  spell  longer 
when  I  was  at  home,  which  wa'n't  very  often,  an'  after 
he  died  I  was  gone  fer  a  good  while.  But  before  that 
time,  when  I  was  at  home,  I  had  him  with  me  all  the 
time  I  could  manage.  With  good  care  he'd  growed  up 
nice  an'  bright,  an'  as  big  as  the  average,  an'  smarter  'n 
a  steel  trap.  He  liked  bein'  with  me  better  'n  anybody 
else,  and  when  I  c'd  manage  to  have  him  I  couldn't 
bear  to  have  him  out  o'  my  sight.  Wa'al,  as  I  told 
you,  he  got  to  be  'most  seven  year  old.  I'd  had  to  go 
out  to  Chicago,  an'  one  day  I  got  a  telegraph  sayin'  he 
was  putty  sick— an'  I  took  the  fust  train  East.  It  was 
'long  in  March,  an'  we  had  a  breakdown,  an'  run  into 
an  awful  snow-storm,  an'  one  thing  another,  an'  I  lost 
twelve  or  fifteen  hours.  It  seemed  to  me  that  them  two 
days  was  longer  'n  my  hull  life,  but  I  finely  did  git  home 
about  nine  o'clock  in  the  mornin'.  When  I  got  to  the 
house  Mis'  Jones  was  on  the  lookout  fer  me,  an'  the 
door  opened  as  I  run  up  the  stoop,  an'  I  see  by  her  face 
that  I  was  too  late.  l  Oh,  David,  David ! '  she  says 


DAVID  HARUM  357 

(she'd  never  called  me  David  before),  puttin'  her 
hands  on  my  shoulders. 

'"When? 'I  says. 

""Bout  midnight/  she  says. 

"'Did  he  suffer  much?'  I  says. 

"'No/  she  says,  'I  don't  think  so  ;  but  he  was  out  of 
his  head  most  of  the  time  after  the  fust  day,  an'  I  guess 
all  the  time  the  last  twenty-four  hours.' 

"'Do  you  think  he'd  'a'  knowed  me? '  I  says.  'Did 
he  say  anythin'  ? '  an'  at  that,"  said  David,  "she  looked 
at  me.  She  wa'n't  cryin'  when  I  come  in,  though  she 
had  be  11 5  but  at  that  her  face  all  broke  up.  'I  don't 
know/  she  says.  'He  kept  sayin'  things,  an'  'bout  all 
we  could  understand  was  "Daddy,  daddy," '  an'  then 
she  thro  wed  her  apern  over  her  face,  an' — " 

David  tipped  his  hat  a  little  farther  over  his  eyes, 
though,  like  many  if  not  most  "horsey  "  men,  he  usually 
wore  it  rather  far  down,  and  leaning  over,  twirled  the 
whip  in  the  socket  between  his  two  fingers  and  thumb. 
John  studied  the  stitched  ornamentation  of  the  dash- 
board until  the  reins  were  pushed  into  his  hands.  But 
it  was  not  for  long.  David  straightened  himself,  and, 
without  turning  his  head,  resumed  them  as  if  that  were 
a  matter  of  course. 

"Day  after  the  fun'ral,"  he  went  on,  "I  says  to  Mis' 
Jones,  'I'm  goin'  back  out  West,'  I  says,  'an'  I  can't  say 
how  long  I  shall  be  gone— long  enough,  anyway/  I  says, 
'to  git  it  into  my  head  that  when  I  come  back  the'  won't 
be  no  little  feller  to  jump  up  an'  round  my  neck  when 
I  come  into  the  house  ;  but,  long  or  short,  I'll  come  back 
some  time,  an'  meanwhile,  as  fur  's  things  between  you 
an'  me  air,  they're  to  go  on  jes'  the  same,  an'  more'n 
that,  do  you  think  you'll  remember  him  some  ? '  I  says. 


358  DAVID   HARUM 

"'As  long  as  I  live,'  she  says,  'jes'  like  my  own.' 

"'  Wa'al,'  I  says,  'long  's  you  remember  him,  he'll  be, 
in  a  way,  livin'  to  ye,  an'  as  long  's  that  I  allow  to  pay 
fer  his  keep  an'  tendin'  jes'  the  same  as  I  have,  aw','  I 
says,  'if  you  don't  let  me  you  ain't  no  friend  o'  mine, 
an'  you  ben  a  good  one.'  Wa'al,  she  squiminidged  some, 
but  I  wouldn't  let  her  say  'No.'  'I've  'ranged  it  all 
with  my  pardner  an'  other  ways,' I  says,  'an'  more'n  that, 
if  you  git  into  any  kind  of  a  scrape  an'  I  don't  happen 
to  be  got  at,  you  go  to  him  an'  git  what  you  want.' " 

"I hope  she  lived  and  prospered,"  said  John  fervently. 

"She  lived  twenty  year,"  said  David,  "an'  I  wish  she 
was  livin'  now.  I  never  drawed  a  check  on  her  account 
without  feelin'  't  I  was  doin'  somethin'  for  my  little  boy. 

"The's  a  good  many  diffrent  sorts  an'  kinds  o'  sorro'," 
he  said  after  a  moment,  "that's  in  some  ways  kind  o' 
kin  to  each  other,  but  I  guess  losin'  a  child  's  a  specie 
by  itself.  Of  course  I  passed  the  achin',  smartin'  point 
years  ago,  but  it's  somethin'  you  can't  fergit— that  is, 
you  can't  help  feelin'  about  it,  because  it  ain't  only 
what  the  child  was  to  you,  but  what  you  keep  thinkin' 
he'd  'a'  ben  growin'  more  an'  more  to  be  to  you.  When 
I  lost  my  little  boy  I  didn't  only  lose  him  as  he  was, 
but  I  ben  losin'  him  over  an'  agin  all  these  years. 
What  he'd  'a'  ben  when  he  was  so  old  ;  an'  what  when 
he'd  got  to  be  a  big  boy  ;  an'  what  he'd  'a'  ben  when  he 
went  mebbe  to  collige ;  an'  what  he'd  'a'  ben  after- 
ward, an'  up  to  now.  Of  course  the  times  when  a  man 
stuffs  his  face  down  into  the  pillers  nights  passes,  after 
a  while ;  but  while  the's  some  sorro's  that  the  hap- 
penin'  o'  things  helps  ye  to  fergit,  I  guess  the's  some 
that  the  happenin'  o'  things  keeps  ye  rememberin',  an' 
losin'  a  child  's  one  on  'em." 


CHAPTEE   XLI 

IT  was  the  latter  part  of  John's  fifth  winter  in  Home- 
ville.  The  business  of  the  office  had  largely  increased. 
The  new  manufactories  which  had  been  established 
did  their  banking  with  Mr.  Harum,  and  the  older  con- 
cerns, including  nearly  all  the  merchants  in  the  vil- 
lage, had  transferred  their  accounts  from  Syrchester 
banks  to  David's.  The  callow  Hopkins  had  fledged 
and  developed  into  a  competent  all-round  man,  able 
to  do  anything  in  the  office,  and  there  was  a  new  "skee- 
zicks  "  discharging  Peleg's  former  functions.  Consider- 
able impetus  had  been  given  to  the  business  of  the 
town  by  the  new  road  whose  rails  had  been  laid  the 
previous  summer.  There  had  been  a  strong  and  acri- 
monious controversy  over  the  route  which  the  road 
should  take  into  and  through  the  village.  There  was 
the  party  of  the  "nabobs"  (as  they  were  characterized 
by  Mr.  Harum)  and  their  following,  and  the  party  of 
the  "village  people,"  and  the  former  had  carried  their 
point  j  but  now  the  road  was  an  accomplished  fact,  and 
most  of  the  bitterness  which  had  been  engendered  had 
died  away.  Yet  the  struggle  was  still  matter  for  talk. 

"Did  I  ever  tell  you,"  said  David,  as  he  and  his 
cashier  were  sitting  in  the  rear  room  of  the  bank,  "how 
Lawyer  Staples  come  to  switch  round  in  that  there 
railroad  jangle  last  spring1?" 

"I  remember,"  said  John,  "that  you  told  me  he  had 
deserted  his  party,  and  you  laughed  a  little  at  the  time, 
but  you  did  not  tell  me  how  it  came  about." 

"I  kind  o'  thought  I  told  ye,"  said  David. 


360  DAVID   HARUM 

"No,"  said  John,  "I  am  quite  sure  you  did  not." 

"Wa'al,"  said  Mr.  Harum,  "the'  was,  as  you  know, 
the  Tenaker-Rogers  crowd  wantin'  one  thing,  an'  the 
Purse-Babbit  lot  bound  to  have  the  other,  an'  run  the 
road  under  the  other  fellers'  noses.  Staples  was  workin' 
tooth  an'  nail  fer  the  Purse  crowd,  an'  bein'  a  good  deal 
of  a  politician,  he  was  helpin'  'em  a  good  deal.  In 
fact,  he  was  about  their  best  card.  I  wa'n't  takin' 
much  hand  in  the  matter  either  way,  though  my  feelin's 
was  with  the  Tenaker  party.  I  knowed  'twould  come  to 
a  point  where  some  money  'd  prob'ly  have  to  be  used, 
an'  I  made  up  my  mind  I  wouldn't  do  much  drivin' 
myself  unless  I  had  to,  an'  not  then  till  the  last  quarter 
of  the  heat.  Wa'al,  it  got  to  lookin'  like  a  putty  even 
thing.  What  little  show  I  had  made  was  if  anythin' 
on  the  Purse  side.  One  day  Tenaker  come  in  to  see  me 
an'  wanted  to  know  flat-footed  which  side  the  fence  I 
was  on.  'Wa'al,'  I  says,  'I've  ben  settin'  up  fer  shapes 
to  be  kind  o'  on  the  fence,  but  I  don't  mind  sayin', 
betwixt  you  an'  me,  that  the  bulk  o'  my  heft  is  a-saggin' 
your  way  ;  but  I  hain't  took  no  active  part,  an'  Purse  an' 
them  thinks  I'm  goin'  to  be  on  their  side  when  it  comes 
to  a  pinch.' 

"'Wa'al,'  he  says,  'it's  goin'  to  be  a  putty  close  thing, 
an'  we're  goin'  to  need  all  the  help  we  c'n  git.' 

"'Wa'al,'  I  says,  'I  guess  that's  so,  but  fer  the  pres- 
ent I  reckon  I  c'n  do  ye  more  good  by  keepin'  in  the 
shade.  Are  you  folks  prepared  to  spend  a  little 
money  ? '  I  says. 

"'Yes,'  he  says,  'if  it  comes  to  that.' 

"'Wa'al,'  I  says,  'it  putty  most  gen'ally  does  come  to 
that,  don't  it?  Now,  the's  one  feller  that's  doin'  ye 
more  harm  than  some  others.' 


DAVID   HARUM 


361 


"'You  mean  Staples?'  he  says. 

" '  Yes/  I  says, i  I  mean  Staples.  He  don't  really  care 
a  hill  o'  white  beans  which  way  the  road  comes  in,  but 
he  thinks  he's  on  the  pop'lar  side.  Now,'  I  says,  'I 
don't  know  as  it'll  be  nec'sary  to  use  money  with  him, 
an'  I  don't  say  't  you  could,  anyway,  but  mebbe  his 


yawp  c'n  be  stopped.     I'll 

have    a   quiet  word  with  ^^rf-^'''—  ^..  ^ 

him,'  I  says,  'an'  see  you 

agin.'     So,"  continued  Mr.  Harum,  "the  next  night  the' 

was  quite  a  lot  of  'em  in  the  bar  of  the  new  hotel,  an' 

Staples  was  haranguin'  away  the  best  he  kuowed  how, 

an'  bime-by  I  nodded  him  off  to  one  side,  an'  we  went 

across  the  hall  into  the  settin'-room. 

"'I  see  you  feel  putty  strong  'bout  this  bus'nis,'  I 
says. 

"'Yes,  sir,  it's  a  matter  of  princ'ple  with  me,'  he  says, 
knockin'  his  fist  down  onto  the  table. 

"'How  does  the  outcome  on't  look  to  ye?'  I  says. 
'Goin'  to  be  a  putty  close  race,  ain't  it?' 


362  DAVID   HARUM 

'"Wa'al,'  he  says,  "tween  you  an'  me,  I  reckon  it 
is.' 

'" That's  the  way  it  looks  to  me,'  I  says,  'an'  more'n 
that,  the  other  fellers  are  ready  to  spend  some  money 
at  a  pinch.' 

"'They  be,  be  they?'  he  says. 

"'Yes,  sir,'  I  says,  'an'  we've  got  to  meet  'em  half-way. 
Now,'  I  says,  takin'  a  paper  out  o'  my  pocket,  '  what  I 
wanted  to  say  to  you  is  this :  You  ben  ruther  more 
prom'nent  in  this  matter  than  'most  anybody — fur  's 
talkin'  goes — but  I'm  consid'ably  int'risted.  The's  got 
to  be  some  money  raised,  an'  I'm  ready,'  I  says,  'to  put 
down  as  much  as  you  be  up  to  a  couple  o'  hunderd,  an' 
I'll  take  the  paper  round  to  the  rest ;  but,'  I  says,  un- 
foldin'  it,  'I  think  you'd  ought  to  head  the  list,  an'  I'll 
come  next.'  Wa'al,"  said  David,  with  a  chuckle  and  a 
shake  of  the  head,  "you'd  ought  to  have  seen  his  jaw 
go  down.  He  wriggled  round  in  his  chair,  an'  looked 
ten  diff  rent  ways  fer  Sunday. 

'"What  do  you  say?'  I  says,  lookin'  square  at  him, 
'  '11  you  make  it  a  couple  o'  hunderd  ? ' 

"'Wa'al,'  he  says,  'I  guess  I  couldn't  go 's  fur  's  that, 
an'  I  wouldn't  like  to  head  the  list  anyway.' 

'"All  right,'  I  says,  Til  head  it.  Will  you  say  one- 
fifty?' 

"'No,'  he  says,  pullin'  his  whiskers,  'I  guess  not.' 

'"A  hunderd? '  I  says,  an'  he  shook  his  head. 

"'Fifty,'  I  says,  'an'  I'll  go  a  hunderd,'  an'  at  that  he 
got  out  his  hank'chif  an'  blowed  his  nose,  an'  took  his 
time  to  it.  'Wa'al,'  I  says,  'what  do  ye  say ? ' 

"'Wa'al,'  he  says,  'I  ain't  quite  prepared  to  give  ye  'n 
answer  to-night.  Fact  on't  is,'  he  says,  'it  don't  make 
a  cent's  wuth  o'  diff 'rence  to  me  person'ly  which  way 


DAVID   HARUM  363 

the  dum'd  road  comes  in,  an'  I  don't  jes'  this  minute 
see  why  I  should  spend  any  money  in  it.' 

<u  There's  the  principle  o'  the  thing/  I  says. 

"'Yes,'  he  says,  gettin'  out  of  his  chair,  'of  course, 
there's  the  princ'ple  of  the  thing,  an' — wa'al,  I'll  think 
it  over  an'  see  you  agin,'  he  says,  lookin'  at  his  watch. 
1 1  got  to  go  now.' 

"Wa'al,  the  next  night,"  proceeded  Mr.  Harum,  "I 
went  down  to  the  hotel  agin,  an'  the'  was  about  the 
same  crowd,  but  no  Staples.  The'  wa'n't  much  goin' 
on,  an'  Purse,  in  pertic'ler,  was  lookin'  putty  down  in 
the  mouth.  'Where's  Staples  ?' I  says. 

"'Wa'al,'  says  Purse,  'he  said  mebbe  he'd  come  to- 
night, an'  mebbe  he  couldn't.  Said  it  wouldn't  make 
much  diff  rence ;  an'  anyhow  he  was  goin'  out  o'  town 
up  to  Syrchester  fer  a  few  days.  I  don't  know  what's 
come  over  the  feller,'  says  Purse.  '  I  told  him  the  time 
was  gittin'  short  an'  we'd  have  to  git  in  our  best  licks, 
an'  he  said  he  guessed  he'd  done  about  all  't  he  could, 
an'  in  fact,'  says  Purse,  'he  seemed  to  'a'  lost  int'rist  in 
the  hull  thing.' " 

"What  did  you  say?"  John  asked. 

"Wa'al,"  said  David,  with  a  grin,  "Purse  went  on  to 
allow  't  he  guessed  somebody's  pocketbook  had  ben 
talkin',  but  I  didn't  say  much  of  any  thin',  an'  putty 
soon  come  away.  Two  three  days  after,"  he  continued, 
"I  see  Tenaker  agin.  'I  hear  Staples  has  gone  out  o' 
town,'  he  says,  'an'  I  hear,  too,'  he  says,  'that  he's  kind 
o'  soured  on  the  hull  thing— didn't  care  much  how  it 
did  come  out.' 

"'Wa'al,'  I  says,  'when  he  comes  back  you  c'n  use 
your  own  judgment  about  havin'  a  little  interview 
with  him.  Mebbe  somethin'  's  made  him  think  the's 


364  DAVID   HARUM 

two  sides  to  this  thing.  But  anyway/  I  says,  'I  guess 
he  won't  do  no  more  hollerin'.' 

'" How's  that?'  says  Tenaker. 

"'Wa'al,'  I  says,  'I  guess  I'll  have  to  tell  ye  a  little 
story.  Mebbe  you've  heard  it  before,  but  it  seems  to 
be  to  the  point.  Once  on  a  time,'  I  says,  'the'  was  a 
big  church  meetin'  that  had  lasted  three  days,  an'  the 
last  evenin'  the'  was  consid'able  excitement.  The 
prayin'  an'  singin'  had  warmed  most  on  'em  up  putty 
well,  an'  one  o'  the  most  movin'  of  the  speakers  was 
tellin'  'em  what  was  what.  The'  was  a  big  crowd,  an' 
while  most  on  'em  come  to  be  edified,  the'  was  quite  a 
lot  in  the  back  part  of  the  place  that  was  ready  fer 
anythin'.  Wa'al,  it  happened  that  standin'  mixed  up 
in  that  lot  was  a  feller  named — we'll  call  him  Smith,  to 
be  sure  of  him — an'  Smith  was  jes'  runnin'  over  with 
power,  an'  ev'ry  little  while  when  somethin'  the  speaker 
said  touched  him  on  the  funny-bone  he'd  out  with  an 
"A — men !  Yes,  Lord ! "  in  a  voice  like  a  fact'ry 
whistle.  Wa'al,  after  a  little  the'  was  some  snickeriu' 
an'  gigglin'  an'  scroughiu'  an'  hustlin'  in  the  back  part, 
an'  even  some  of  the  serioustest  up  in  front  would  kind 
o'  smile,  an'  the  moderator  leaned  over  an'  says  to  one 
of  the  bretherin  on  the  platform,  "Brother  Jones,"  he 
says,  "can't  you  git  down  to  the  back  of  the  hall  an'  say 
somethin'  to  quiet  Brother  Smith?  Smith's  a  good 
man,  an'  a  pious  man,"  the  moderator  says,  "but  he's 
very  excitable,  an'  I'm  'fraid  he'll  git  the  boys  to  goin' 
back  there  an'  disturb  the  meetin'."  So  Jones  he  worked 
his  way  back  to  where  Smith  was,  an'  the  moderator 
watched  him  go  up  to  Smith  and  jes'  speak  to  him  'bout 
ten  seconds ;  an'  after  that  Smith  never  peeped  once. 
After  the  meetin'  was  over  the  moderator  says  to 


DAVID   HARUM 


365 


Jones,  "Brother  Jones,"  he  says,  "what  did  you  say  to 
Brother  Smith  to-night  that  shut  him  up  so  quick?" 
"I  ast  him  fer  a  dollar  for  For'n  Missions,"  says  Brother 
Jones,  an',  wa'al,'  I  says  to  Tenaker,  l  that's  what  I 
done  to  Staples.' " 

"Did  Mr.  Tenaker  see  the  point?"  asked  John, 
laughing. 

"He  laughed  a  little,"  said  David,  "but  didn't  quite 
ketch  on  till  I  told  him  about  the  subscription  paper, 
an'  then  he  like  to  split." 

"Suppose  Staples  had  taken  you  up,"  suggested  John. 

"Wa'al,"  said  David,  "I  didn't  think  I  was  takin' 
many  chances.  If,  in  the  fust  place,  I  hadn't  knowed 
Staples  as  well  's  I  did,  the  Smith  fam'ly,  so  fur  's  my 
experience  goes,  has  got  more  members  'n  any  other 
fam'ly  on  top  of  the  earth."  At  this  point  a  boy 
brought  in  a  telegram.  David  opened  it,  gave  a  side 
glance  at  his  companion,  and,  taking  out  his  pocket- 
book,  put  the  dispatch  therein. 


CHAPTER  XLII 

THE  next  morning  David  called  John  into  the  rear 
room.  "Busy?"  he  asked. 

"No/'  said  John.     "Nothing  that  can't  wait." 

"Set  down,"  said  Mr.  Harum,  drawing  a  chair  to  the 
fire.  He  looked  up  with  his  characteristic  grin.  "Ever 
own  a  hog? "  he  said. 

"No,"  said  John,  smiling. 

"Ever  feel  like  ownin'  one?" 

"I  don't  remember  ever  having  any  cravings  in  that 
direction." 

"Like  pork?"  asked  Mr.  Harum. 

"In  moderation,"  was  the  reply.  David  produced 
from  his  pocketbook  the  dispatch  received  the  day 
before  and  handed  it  to  the  young  man  at  his  side. 
"Read  that,"  he  said. 

John  looked  at  it  and  handed  it  back. 

"It  doesn't  convey  any  idea  to  my  mind,"  he  said. 

"What?"  said  David,  "you  don't  know  what  ' Bangs 
Galilee'  means?  nor  who  'Raisin'  is?" 

"You'll  have  to  ask  me  an  easier  one,"  said  John, 
smiling. 

David  sat  for  a  moment  in  silence,  and  then,  "How 
much  money  have  you  got  ?  "  he  asked. 

"Well,"  was  the  reply,  "with  what  I  had  and  what  I 
have  saved  since  I  came  I  could  get  together  about  five 
thousand  dollars,  I  think." 

"Is  it  where  you  c'n  put  your  hands  on't?" 

John  took  some  slips  of  paper  from  his  pocketbook 
and  handed  them  to  David. 


DAVID   HARUM  367 

"H'm,  h'm,"  said  the  latter.  "Wa'al,  I  owe  ye  quite 
a  little  bunch  o'  money,  don't  I?  Forty-five  hunderd  ! 
Wa'al !  Couldn't  you  'a'  done  better  'n  to  keep  this 
here  at  four  per  cent.  ?  " 

"Well,"  said  John,  "perhaps  so,  and  perhaps  not.  I 
preferred  to  do  this  at  all  events." 

"Thought  the  old  man  was  safe  anyway,  didn't  ye?  " 
said  David  in  a  tone  which  showed  that  he  was  highly 
pleased. 

"Yes,"  said  John. 

"Is  this  all?"  asked  David. 

"There  is  some  interest  on  those  certificates,  and  I 
have  some  balance  in  my  account,"  was  the  reply  ;  "and 
then,  you  know,  I  have  some  very  valuable  securities 
— a  beautiful  line  of  mining  stocks,  and  that  promising 
Pennsylvania  property." 

At  the  mention  of  the  last-named  asset  David  looked 
at  him  for  an  instant  as  if  about  to  speak,  but  if  so  he 
changed  his  mind.  He  sat  for  a  moment  fingering  the 
yellow  paper  which  carried  the  mystic  words.  Pres- 
ently he  said,  opening  the  message  out,  "That's  from  an 
old  friend  of  mine  out  to  Chicago.  He  come  ^ 
from  this  part  of  the  country,  an'  we  was 
young  fellers  together  thirty  years  ago.  I've 
had  a  good  many  deals  with  him  and  through 
him,  an'  he  never  give  me  a  wrong  steer, 
fur  's  I  know.  That  is,  I  never  done  as  he 
told  me  without  comin'  out  all  right,  though 
he's  give  me  a  good  many  pointers 
I  never  did  nothin' about.  'Tain't 
nec'sary  to  name  no  names,  but 
( Bangs  Galilee '  means '  buy  pork,' 
an'  as  I've  ben  watchin'  the  market 


368  DAVID   HARUM 

fer  quite  a  spell  myself,  an'  standard  pork  's  a  good  deal 
lower  'n  it  costs  to  pack  it,  I've  made  up  my  mind  to  buy 
a  few  thousan'  barrels  fer  fam'ly  use.  It's  a  handy  thing 
to  have  in  the  house,"  declared  Mr.  Harum,  "an'  I 
thought  mebbe  it  wouldn't  be  a  bad  thing  fer  you  to 
have  a  little.  It  looks  cheap  to  me,"  he  added,  "an' 
mebbe  bime-by  what  you  don't  eat  you  c'n  sell." 

"Well,"  said  John,  laughing,  "you  see  me  at  table 
every  day  and  know  what  my  appetite  is  like.  How 
much  pork  do  you  think  I  could  take  care  of?  " 

"Wa'al,  at  the  present  price,"  said  David,  "I  think 
about  four  thousan'  barrels  would  give  ye  enough  to 
eat  fer  a  spell,  an'  mebbe  leave  ye  a  few  barrels  to  dis- 
pose of  if  you  should  happen  to  strike  a  feller  later  on 
that  wanted  it  wuss  'n  you  did." 

John  opened  his  eyes  a  little.  "I  should  only  have 
a  margin  of  a  dollar  and  a  quarter,"  he  said. 

"Wa'al,  I've  got  a  notion  that  that'll  carry  ye,"  said 
David.  "It  may  go  lower  'n  what  it  is  now.  I  never 
bought  anythin'  yet  that  didn't  drop  some,  an'  I  guess 
nobody  but  a  fool  ever  did  buy  at  the  bottom  more'u 
once  j  but  I've  had  an  idee  for  some  time  that  it  was 
about  bottom,  an'  this  here  telegraph  wouldn't  'a'  ben 
sent  if  the  feller  that  sent  it  didn't  think  so  too,  an' 
I've  had  some  other  cor'spondence  with  him."  Mr. 
Harum  paused  and  laughed  a  little. 

"I  was  jest  thinkin',"  he  continued,  "of  what  the 
Irishman  said  about  Stofford.  Never  ben  there,  have 
ye?  Wa'al,  it's  a  place  eight  nine  mile  f'm  here,  an' 
the  hills  round  are  so  steep  that  when  you're  goin'  up 
you  c'n  look  right  back  under  the  buggy  by  jes'  leanin' 
over  the  edge  of  the  dash.  I  was  drivin'  round  there 
once,  an'  I  met  an  Irishman  with  a  big  drove  o'  hogs. 


DAVID   HARUM  369 

'" Hello,  Pat!'  I  says,  <  where' d  all  them  hogs  come 
from?' 

"'Stofford,'  he  says. 

"'Wa'al,'  I  says,  'I  wouldn't  'a'  thought  the'  was  so 
many  hogs  in  Stofford.' 

"'Oh,  be  gobs!'  he  says,  'sure  they're  all  hogs  in 
Stofford' ;  an',"  declared  David,  "the  bears  ben  sellin' 
that  pork  up  in  Chicago  as  if  the  hull  everlastin'  West 
was  all  hogs." 

"It's  very  tempting,"  said  John  thoughtfully. 

"Wa'al,"  said  David,  "I  don't  want  to  tempt  ye  ex- 
ac'ly,  an'  certain  I  don't  want  to  urge  ye.  The'  ain't 
no  sure  things  but  death  an'  taxes,  as  the  sayin'  is,  but 
buyin'  pork  at  these  prices  is  buyin'  somethin'  that's 
got  value,  an'  you  can't  wipe  it  out.  In  other  words, 
it's  buyin'  a  warranted  article  at  a  price  consid'ably 
lower  'n  it  c'n  be  produced  for,  an'  though  it  may  go 
lower,  if  a  man  c'n  stick,  it's  bound  to  level  up  in  the 
long  run." 

Our  friend  sat  for  some  minutes  apparently  looking 
into  the  fire,  but  he  was  not  conscious  of  seeing  any- 
thing at  all.  Finally  he  rose,  went  over  to  Mr.  Harum's 
desk,  figured  the  interest  on  the  certificates  up  to  the 
first  of  January,  indorsed  them,  and  filling  up  a  check 
for  the  balance  of  the  amount  in  question,  handed  the 
check  and  certificate  to  David. 

"Think  you'll  go  it,  eh?  "  said  the  latter. 

"Yes,"  said  John ;  "but  if  I  take  the  quantity  you 
suggest  I  shall  have  nothing  to  remargin  the  trade  in 
case  the  market  goes  below  a  certain  point." 

"I've  thought  of  that,"  replied  David,  "an'  was  goin' 
to  say  to  you  that  I'd  carry  the  trade  down  as  fur  as  your 
money  would  go,  in  case  more  margins  had  to  be  called," 


370  DAVID   HARUM 

"Very  well,"  said  John.     "And  will  you  look  after 
the  whole  matter  for  me  t " 
"All  right,"  said  David. 
John  thanked  him  and  returned  to  the  front  room. 

There  were  times  in  the  months  which  followed  when 
our  friend  had  reason  to  wish  that  all  swine  had  perished 
with  those  whom  Shylock  said  "your  prophet  the  Naza- 
rite  conjured  the  devil  into "  ;  and  the  news  of  the 
world  in  general  was  of  secondary  importance  compared 
with  the  market  reports.  After  the  purchase  pork 
dropped  off  a  little,  and  hung  about  the  lower  figure  for 
some  time.  Then  it  began  to  advance  by  degrees  until 
the  quotation  was  a  dollar  above  the  purchase  price. 

John's  impulse  was  to  sell,  but  David  made  no  sign. 
The  market  held  firm  for  a  while,  even  going  a  little 
higher.  Then  it  began  to  drop  rather  more  rapidly 
than  it  had  advanced,  to  about  what  the  pork  had  cost, 
and  for  a  long  period  fluctuated  only  a  few  cents  one 
way  or  the  other.  This  was  followed  by  a  steady  de- 
cline to  the  extent  of  half  a  dollar,  and,  as  the  reports 
came,  it  "looked  like  going  lower,"  which  it  did.  In 
fact,  there  came  a  day  when  it  was  so  "low,"  and  so 
much  more  "looked  like  going  lower"  than  ever  (as 
such  things  usually  do  when  the  "bottom"  is  pretty 
nearly  reached),  that  our  friend  had  not  the  courage  to 
examine  the  market  reports  for  the  next  two  days,  and 
simply  tried  to  keep  the  subject  out  of  his  mind.  On 
the  morning  of  the  third  day  the  Syrchester  paper 
was  brought  in  about  ten  o'clock,  as  usual,  and  laid 
on  Mr.  Harum's  desk.  John  shivered  a  little,  and  for 
some  time  refrained  from  looking  at  it.  At  last,  more 
by  impulse  than  intention,  he  went  into  the  back  room 


DAVID    HARUM 


37 1 


and  glanced  at  the  first  page  without  taking  the  paper 
in  his  hands.  One  of  the  press  dispatches  was  headed  : 
"Great  Excitement  on  Chicago  Board  of  Trade  :  Pork 
Market  reported  Cornered :  Bears  on  the  Run,"  and 
more  of  the  same  sort,  which  struck  our  friend  as  being 


the    most    profitable, 
delightful     literature 
come   across.      David 
Chester  the  two  days 
ing  the  evening  be- 
fore. J.ustthen    , 

i\ 

he  came  into 
the  office,  and 
John  handed 
him  the  paper. 
"Wa'al,"  he 
said,  holding  it 
off  at  arm's 
length,  and 
then  putting 
on  his  glasses, 
"them  fellers 
that  thought 
they  was  all 
hogs  up  West  are  havin'  a 
change  of  heart,  are  they? 
I  reckoned  they  would  'fore 
they  got  through  with  it. 


instructive,  and 
that  he  had  ever 
had  been  in  Syr- 
previous,  return- 


It's  ben  ruther  a  long 


pull,  though,  eh?"  he  said,  looking  at  John  with  a 
grin. 

"Yes,"  said  our  friend,  with  a  slight  shrug  of  the 
shoulders. 

"Things  looked  ruther  colicky  the  last  two  three 
25 


372  DAVID   HARUM 

days,  eh?"  suggested  David.  "Did  you  think  'the  jig 
was  up  an'  the  monkey  was  in  the  box '  ?  " 

"Rather,"  said  John.  "The  fact  is,"  he  admitted,  "I 
am  ashamed  to  say  that  for  a  few  days  back  I  haven't 
looked  at  a  quotation.  I  suppose  you  must  have  car- 
ried me  to  some  extent.  How  much  was  it  ?  " 

"Wa'al,"  said  David,  "I  kept  the  trade  margined,  of 
course,  an'  if  we'd  sold  out  at  the  bottom  you'd  have 
owed  me  somewhere  along  a  thousan'  or  fifteen  hunderd  ; 
but,"  he  added,  "it  was  only  in  the  slump,  an'  didn't 
last  long,  an'  anyway  I  cal'lated  to  carry  that  pork  to 
where  it  would  'a'  ketched  fire.  I  wa'n't  worried  none, 
an'  you  didn't  let  on  to  be,  an'  so  I  didn't  say  anythin'." 

"What  do  you  think  about  it  now? "  asked  John. 

"My  opinion  is  now,"  replied  Mr.  Harum,  "that  it's 
goin'  to  putty  near  where  it  belongs,  an'  mebbe  higher, 
an'  them 's  my  advices.  We  can  sell  now  at  some  profit, 
an'  of  course  the  bears  '11  jump  on  agin  as  it  goes  up, 
an'  the  other  fellers  '11  take  the  profits  f'm  time  to 
time.  If  I  was  where  I  could  watch  the  market,  I'd 
mebbe  try  to  make  a  turn  in't  'casionally,  but  I  guess 
as  'tis  we'd  better  set  down  an'  let  her  take  her  own 
gait.  I  don't  mean  to  try  an'  git  the  top  price — I'm 
alwus  willin'  to  let  the  other  feller  make  a  little— but 
we've  waited  fer  quite  a  spell,  an'  as  it's  goin'  our  way, 
we  might 's  well  wait  a  little  longer." 

"All  right,"  said  John,  "and  I'm  very  much  obliged 
to  you." 

"Sho,  sho  ! "  said  David. 

It  was  not  until  August,  however,  that  the  deal  was 
finally  closed  out. 


CHAPTEE   XLIII 

THE  summer  was  drawing  to  a  close.  The  season,  so  far 
as  the  social  part  of  it  was  concerned,  had  been  what 
John  had  grown  accustomed  to  in  previous  years,  and 
there  were  few  changes  in  or  among  the  people  whom 
he  had  come  to  know  very  well,  save  those  which  a 
few  years  make  in  young  people  :  some  increase  of  im- 
portance in  demeanor  on  the  part  of  the  young  men 
whose  razors  were  coming  into  requisition ;  and  the 
changes  from  short  to  long  skirts,  from  braids,  pig-tails, 
and  flowing  manes  to  more  elaborate  coiffures  on  the 
part,  of  the  young 
women.  The  most 
notable  event  had 
been  the  re-open- 
ing of  the  Verjoos  • 
house,  which  had 
been  closed  for  two  ,. 
summers,  and  the 
return  of  the  family,  followed  by  the  appearance  of  a 
young  man  whom  Miss  Clara  had  met  abroad,  and  who 
represented  himself  as  the  acknowledged  fiance  of  that 
young  woman.  It  need  hardly  be  said  that  discussions 
of  the  event,  and  upon  the  appearance,  manners,  pros- 
pects, etc.,  of  that  fortunate  gentleman  had  formed  a 
very  considerable  part  of  the  talk  of  the  season  among 
the  summer  people ;  and,  indeed,  interest  in  the  affair 
had  permeated  all  grades  and  classes  of  society. 

It  was  some  six  weeks  after  the  settlement  of  the 
transaction  in  "pork  "  that  David  and  John  were  driv- 


374 


DAVID   HARUM 


ing  together  in  the  afternoon  as  they  had  so  often  done 
in  the  last  five  years.  They  had  got  to  that  point  of 
understanding  where  neither  felt  constrained  to  talk 
for  the  purpose  of  keeping  up  conversation,  and  often 
in  their  long  drives  there  was  little  said  by  either  of 
them.  The  young  man  was  never  what  is  called  "a 
great  talker,"  and  Mr.  Harum  did  not  always  "git 

goin'."  On  this  occa- 
sion they  had  gone 
along  for  some  time, 
smoking  in  silence,  each 
man  absorbed  in  his 
thoughts.  Finally  Da- 
vid turned  to  his  com- 
panion. 

"Do  you  know  that 
Dutchman  Claricy  Ver- 
joos  is  goin'  to  marry? " 
he  asked. 

"Yes,"  replied  John,  laughing  ; 
"I  have  met  him  a  number  of 
times.  But  he  isn't  a  Dutchman. 
What  gave  you  that  idea  ?  " 

"I  heard  it  was  over  in  Germany 
she  run  across  him,"  said  David. 

"I  believe  that  is  so,  but  he 
isn't  a  German.     He  is  from  Philadelphia, 
and  is  a  friend  of  the  Bradways." 
"What  kind  of  a  feller  is  he?     Good  enough  for 
her?" 

"Well,"  said  John,  smiling,  "in  the  sense  in  which 
that  question  is  usually  taken,  I  should  say  yes.  He 
has  good  looks,  good  manners,  a  good  deal  of  money,  I 


IKI 

Si 


DAVID   HARUM  375 

am  told,  and  it  is  said  that  Miss  Clara— which  is  the 
main  point,  after  all— is  very  much  in  love  with  him.'7 

"H'm,"  said  David  after  a  moment.  "How  do  you 
git  along  with  the  Verjoos  girls'?  Was  Claricy's  ears 
pointed  all  right  when  you  seen  her  fust  after  she  come 
home  ?  " 

"Oh,  yes  ! "  replied  John,  smiling,  "she  and  her  sister 
were  perfectly  pleasant  and  cordial,  and  Miss  Verjoos 
and  I  are  on  very  friendly  terms." 

"I  was  thinking"  said  David,  "that  you  an'  Claricy 
might  be  got  to  likin'  each  other,  an'  mebbe— " 

"I  don't  think  there  could  ever  have  been  the  small- 
est chance  of  it,"  declared  John  hastily. 

"Take  the  lines  a  minute,"  said  David,  handing  them 
to  his  companion  after  stopping  the  horses.  "The  nigh 
one's  picked  up  a  stone,  I  guess,"  and  he  got  out  to  in- 
vestigate. "The  river  road,"  he  remarked  as  he  climbed 
back  into  the  buggy  after  removing  the  stone  from  the 
horse's  foot,  "is  about  the  puttiest  road  round  here, 
but  I  don't  drive  it  oftener  jest  on  account  of  them 
dum'd  loose  stuns."  He  sucked  the  air  through  his 
pursed-up  lips,  producing  a  little  squeaking  sound,  and 
the  horses  started  forward.  Presently  he  turned  to 
John. 

"Did  you  ever  think  of  gettin'  married?"  he  asked. 

"Well,"  said  our  friend,  with  a  little  hesitation,  "I 
don't  remember  that  I  ever  did,  very  definitely." 

"Somebody  't  you  knew  'fore  you  come  up  here?" 
said  David,  jumping  at  a  conclusion. 

"Yes,"  said  John,  smiling  a  little  at  the  question. 

"Wouldn't  .she  have  ye  ?  "  queried  David,  who  stuck 
at  no  trifles  when  in  pursuit  of  information. 

John  laughed.     "I  never  asked  her,"  he  replied,  in 


376  DAVID   HARUM 

truth  a  little  surprised  at  his  own  willingness  to  be 
questioned. 

"Did  ye  cal'late  to  when  the  time  come  right?  "  pur- 
sued Mr.  Harum. 

Of  this  part  of  his  history  John  had,  of  course,  never 
spoken  to  David.  There  had  been  a  time  when,  if  not 
resenting  the  attempt  upon  his  confidence,  he  would 
have  made  it  plain  that  he  did  not  wish  to  discuss  the 
matter,  and  the  old  wound  still  gave  him  twinges.  But 
he  had  not  only  come  to  know  his  questioner  very  well, 
but  to  be  much  attached  to  him.  He  knew,  too,  that 
the  elder  man  would  ask  him  nothing  save  in  the  way 
of  kindness,  for  he  had  had  a  hundred  proofs  of  that ; 
and  now,  so  far  from  feeling  reluctant  to  take  his  com- 
panion into  his  confidence,  he  rather  welcomed  the  idea. 
He  was,  withal,  a  bit  curious  to  ascertain  the  drift  of 
the  inquiry,  knowing  that  David,  though  sometimes 
working  in  devious  ways,  rarely  started  without  an 
intention.  And  so  he  answered  the  question  and 
what  followed  as  he  might  have  told  his  story  to 
a  woman. 

"An'  didn't  you  never  git  no  note,  nor  message,  nor 
word  of  any  kind?  "  asked  David. 

"No." 

"Nor  hain't  ever  heard  a  word  about  her  f  m  that 
day  to  this?" 

"No." 

"Nor  hain't  ever  tried  to?" 

"No,"  said  John.     "What  would  have  been  the  use  1 " 

"Prov'dence  seemed  to  've  made  a  putty  clean  sweep 
in  your  matters  that  spring,  didn't  it?  " 

"It  seemed  so  to  me,"  said  John. 

Nothing  more  was  said  for  a  minute  or  two.     Mr. 


DAVID    HARUM  377 

Harum  appeared  to  have  abandoned  the  pursuit  of  the 
subject  of  his  questions.  At  last  he  said  : 

"You  ben  here  'most  five  years." 

"Very  nearly/'  John  replied. 

"Ben  putty  contented,  on  the  hull?" 

"I  have  grown  to  be,"  said  John.  "Indeed,  it's  hard 
to  realize  at  times  that  I  haven't  always  lived  in 
Homeville.  I  remember  my  former  life  as  if  it  were 
something  I  have  read  in  a  book.  There  was  a  John 
Lenox  in  it,  but  he  seems  to  me  sometimes  more  like  a 
character  in  a  story  than  myself." 

"An'  yet,"  said  David,  turning  toward  him,  "if  you 
was  to  go  back  to  it,  this  last  five  years  'd  git  to  be  that 
way  to  ye  a  good  deal  quicker.  Don't  ye  think  so? " 

"Perhaps  so,"  replied  John.  "Yes,"  he  added 
thoughtfully,  "it  is  possible." 

"I  guess  on  the  hull,  though,"  remarked  Mr.  Harum, 
"you  done  better  up  here  in  the  country  'n  you  might 
some'ers  else — " 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  John  sincerely,  "thanks  to  you,  I 
have  indeed,  and—" 

"—an' — ne'  mind  about  me — you  got  quite  a  little 
bunch  o'  money  together  now.  I  was  thinkin'  't  mebbe 
you  might  feel 't  you  needn't  to  stay  here  no  longer  if 
you  didn't  want  to." 

The  young  man  turned  to  the  speaker  inquiringly, 
but  Mr.  Harurn's  face  was  straight  to  the  front,  and 
betrayed  nothing. 

"It  wouldn't  be  no  more'n  natural,"  he  went  on,  "an' 
mebbe  it  would  be  best  for  ye.  You're  too  good  a  man 
to  spend  all  your  days  workin'  fer  Dave  Harum,  an' 
I've  had  it  in  my  mind  fer  some  time— somethin'  like 
that  pork  deal — to  make  you  a  little  independent  in 


378  DAVID   HARUM 

case  anythin'  should  happen,  an'— gen' ally.  I  couldn't 
give  ye  no  money  'cause  you  wouldn't  'a'  took  it  even 
if  I'd  wanted  to,  but  now  you  got  it,  why — " 

"I  feel  very  much  as  if  you  had  given  it  to  me,"  pro- 
tested the  young  man. 

David  put  up  his  hand.  "No,  no,"  he  said,  "all  't 
I  did  was  to  propose  the  thing  to  ye,  an'  to  put  up  a 
little  money  fer  two  three  days.  I  didn't  take  no 
chances,  an'  it's  all  right,  an'  it's  yourn,  an'  it  makes 
ye  to  a  certain  extent  independent  of  Homeville." 

"I  don't  quite  see  it  so,"  said  John. 

"  Wa'al,"  said  David,  turning  to  him,  "if  you'd  had  as 
much  five  years  ago  you  wouldn't  'a'  come  here,  would 
ye?" 

John  was  silent. 

"What  I  was  leadin'  up  to,"  resumed  Mr.  Harum 
after  'a  moment,  "is  this.  I  ben  thinkin'  about  it  fer 
some  time,  but  I  haven't  wanted  to  speak  to  ye  about 
it  before.  In  fact,  I  might  'a'  put  it  off  some  longer  if 
things  wa'n't  as  they  are,  but  the  fact  o'  the  matter  is 
that  I'm  goin'  to  take  down  my  sign." 

John  looked  at  him  in  undisguised  amazement,  not 
unmixed  with  consternation. 

"Yes,"  said  David,  obviously  avoiding  the  other's 
eye,  "'David  Harum,  Banker,'  is  goin'  to  come  down. 
I'm  gettin'  to  be  an  old  man,"  he  went  on,  "an'  what 
with  some  investments  I've  got,  an'  a  hoss  trade  once  in 
a  while,  I  guess  I  c'n  manage  to  keep  the  fire  goin'  in 
the  kitchin  stove  fer  Polly  an'  me,  an'  the'  ain't  no 
reason  why  I  sh'd  keep  my  sign  up  much  of  any  longer. 
Of  course,"  he  said,  "if  I  was  to  go  on  as  I  be  now  I'd 
want  ye  to  stay  jest  as  you  are  ;  but,  as  I  was  say  in', 
you're  to  a  consid'able  extent  independent.  You  hain't 


DAVID   HARUM 


379 


no  special  ties  to  keep  ye,  an'  you  ought  anyway,  as  I 
said  before,  to  be  doin'  better  for  yourself  than  jes' 
drawin'  pay  in  a  country  bank." 

One  of  the  most  impressive  morals  drawn  from  the 
fairy  tales  of  our  childhood,  and  in- 
deed from  the   literature  and  ex- 
perience of  our  later  pe- 
riods of  life,  is  that  the 
fulfillment     of 
wishes  is  often 


attended  by  the  most  unwelcome  results.  There  had 
been  a  great  many  times  when  to  our  friend  the  possi- 
bility of  being  able  to  bid  farewell  to  Homeville  had 
seemed  the  most  desirable  of  things,  but  confronted 
with  the  idea  as  a  reality— for  what  other  construction 
could  he  put  upon  David's  words  except  that  they 


380  DAVID   HARUM 

amounted  practically  to  a  dismissal,  though  a  most  kind 
one?— he  found  himself  simply  in  dismay. 

"I  suppose/'  he  said  after  a  few  moments,  "that  by 
'taking  down  your  sign'  you  mean  going  out  of  busi- 
ness—" 

"Figger  o'  speech,"  explained  David. 

"  —  and  your  determination  is  not  only  a  great  sur- 
prise to  me,  but  grieves  me  very  much.  I  am  very 
sorry  to  hear  it — more  sorry  than  I  can  tell  you.  As 
you  remind  me,  if  I  leave  Homeville  I  shall  not  go 
almost  penniless  as  I  came,  but  I  shall  leave  with  great 
regret,  and,  indeed —  Ah,  well — "  he  broke  off  with  a 
wave  of  his  hands. 

"What  was  you  goin'  to  say?"  asked  David,  after  a 
moment,  his  eyes  on  the  horizon. 

"I  can't  say  very  much  more,"  replied  the  young  man, 
"than  that  I  am  very  sorry.  There  have  been  times," 
he  added,  "as  you  may  understand,  when  I  have  been 
restless  and  discouraged  for  a  while,  particularly  at 
first ;  but  I  can  see  now  that,  on  the  whole,  I  have  been 
far  from  unhappy  here.  Your  house  has  grown  to  be 
more  a  real  home  than  any  I  have  ever  known,  and  you 
and  your  sister  are  like  my  own  people.  What  you  say, 
that  I  ought  not  to  look  forward  to  spending  my  life 
behind  the  counter  of  a  village  bank  on  a  salary,  may 
be  true  ;  but  I  am  not,  at  present  at  least,  a  very  ambi- 
tious person,  nor,  I  am  afraid,  a  very  clever  one  in  the 
way  of  getting  on  in  the  world ;  and  the  idea  of  break- 
ing out  for  myself,  even  if  that  were  all  to  be  consid- 
ered, is  not  a  cheerful  one.  I  am  afraid  all  this  sounds 
rather  selfish  to  you,  when,  as  I  can  see,  you  have  de- 
ferred your  plans  for  my  sake,  and  after  all  else  that 
you  have  done  for  me." 


DAVID   HARUM  381 

"I  guess  I  sha'n't  lay  it  up  agin  ye,"  said  David 
quietly. 

They  drove  along  in  silence  for  a  while. 

"May  I  ask,"  said  John,  at  length,  "when  you  intend 
to  'take  down  your  sign/  as  you  put  it?" 

"Whenever  you  say  the  word/'  declared  David,  with 
a  chuckle  and  a  side  glance  at  his  companion.  John 
turned  in  bewilderment. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked. 

"  Wa'al,"  said  David,  with  another  short  laugh,  "fur 's 
the  sign  's  concerned,  I  s'pose  we  could  stick  a  new  one 
over  it,  but  I  guess  it  might  's  well  come  down  ;  but 
we'll  settle  that  matter  later  on." 

John  still  looked  at  the  speaker  in  utter  perplexity, 
until  the  latter  broke  out  into  a  laugh. 

"Got  any  idee  what's  goin'  onto  the  new  sign?"  he 
asked. 

"You  don't  mean — " 

"Yes,  I  do,"  declared  Mr.  Harum,  "an'  my  notion  's 
this,   an'   don't  you  say  aye,  yes,  nor 
no  till  I  git  through,"  and  he  laid  his 
left  hand  restrainingly  on  John's  knee. 


"The  new  sign  '11  read  ' Harum  &  Comp'ny/  or 
'Harmn  &  Lenox/  jest  as  you  elect.  You  c'n  put  in 
what  money  you  got  an'  I'll  put  in  as  much  more, 


382 


DAVID   HARUM 


which  '11  make  cap'tal  enough  in  gen'ral,  an'  any  extry 
money  that's  needed— wa'al,  up  to  a  certain  point,  I 
guess  I  c'n  manage.  Now  putty  much  all  the  new 
bus'nis  has  come  in  through  you,  an'  practically  you 
got  the  hull  thing  in  your  hands.  You'll  do  the  work 
about  's  you're  doin'  now,  an'  you'll  draw  the  same 
sal'ry ;  an'  after  that's  paid  we'll  go  snucks  on  anythin' 
that's  left— that  is,"  added  David,  with  a  chuckle,  "if 
you  feel  that  you  c'n  start  it  in  Homeville." 

"I  wish  you  was  married  to  one  of  our  Homeville 
girls,  though,"  declared  Mr.  Harum  later  on  as  they 
drove  homeward. 


CHAPTEK   XLIV 

SINCE  the  whooping-cough  and  measles  of  childhood 
the  junior  partner  of  Harum  &  Company  had  never  to 
his  recollection  had  a  day's  illness  in  his  life,  and  he 
fought  the  attack  which  came  upon  him  about  the  first 
week  in  December  with  a  sort  of  incredulous  disgust, 
until  one  morning  when  he  did  not  appear  at  breakfast. 
He  spent  the  next  week  in  bed,  and  at  the  end  of  that 
time,  while  he  was  able  to  be  about,  it  was  in  a  languid 
and  spiritless  fashion,  and  he  was  shaken  and  exas- 
perated by  a  persistent  cough.  The  season  was  and 
had  been  unusually  inclement  even  for  that  region, 
where  the  thermometer  sometimes  changes  fifty  de- 
grees in  thirty-six  hours  ;  and  at  the  time  of  his  release 
from  his  room  there  was  a  period  of  successive  changes 
of  temperature  from  thawing  to  zero  and  below,  a  char- 
acteristic of  the  winter  climate  of  Homeville  and  its 
vicinity.  Dr.  Hayes  exhibited  the  inevitable  quinine, 
iron,  and  all  the  tonics  in  his  pharmacopoeia,  with 
cough  mixtures  and  sundry,  but  in  vain.  Aunt  Polly 
pressed  bottles  of  sovereign  decoctions  and  infusions 
upon  him — which  were  received  with  thanks  and  neg- 
lected with  the  blackest  ingratitude— and  exhausted 
not  only  the  markets  of  Homeville,  but  her  own  and 
Sairy's  culinary  resources  (no  mean  ones,  by  the  way) 
to  tempt  the  appetite  which  would  not  respond.  One 
week  followed  another  without  any  improvement  in 
his  condition ;  and  indeed  as  time  went  on  he  fell  into 
a  condition  of  irritable  listlessness  which  filled  his  part- 
ner with  concern. 


DAVID   HARUM 


"What's  the  matter  with  him,  Doc?"  said  David  to 
the  physician.  "He  don't  seem  to  take  no  more  int'rist 
than  a  foundered  hoss.  Can't  ye  do  nothin'  for  him  f  " 

"Not  much  use   dosin'   him,"   replied   the   doctor. 


"Pull  out  all 
warm  weather, 
this  cussed  influ- 
call  it,  sometimes 
"Wa'al,  warm 


right,  maybe,  come 
Big  strong  fellow,  but 
enzy,  or  grip,  as  they 
hits  them  hardest." 
weather  >s  some  way 


off,"  remarked  Mr.  Harum,  "an'  he  coughs  enough  to 
tear  his  head  off  sometimes." 

The  doctor  nodded.  "Ought  to  clear  out  some- 
where," he  said.  "Don't  like  that  cough  myself." 

"What  do  you  mean? "  asked  David. 

"Ought  to  go  'way  for  a  spell,"  said  the  doctor ;  "quit 
working,  and  get  a  change  of  climate." 


DAVID  HARUM  385 

"Have  you  told  him  so  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Harum. 

"Yes,"  replied  the  doctor  ;  "said  he  couldn't  get 
away." 

"H'm'm!"  said  David  thoughtfully,  pinching  his 
lower  lip  between  his  thumb  and  finger. 

A  day  or  two  after  the  foregoing  interview,  John 
came  in  and  laid  an  open  letter  in  front  of  David,  who 
was  at  his  desk,  and  dropped  languidly  into  a  chair 
without  speaking.  Mr.  Harum  read  the  letter,  smiled 
a  little,  and  turning  in  his  chair,  took  off  his  glasses 
and  looked  at  the  young  man,  who  was  staring  ab- 
stractedly at  the  floor. 

"I  ben  rather  expectin'  you'd  git  somethin'  like  this. 
What  be  you  goin'  to  do  about  it  ? " 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  John.  "I  don't  like  the  idea 
of  leasing  the  property  in  any  case,  and  certainly  not 
on  the  terms  they  offer ;  but  it  is  lying  idle,  and  I'm 
paying  taxes  on  it — " 

"Wa'al,  as  I  said,  I  ben  expectin'  fer  some  time 
they'd  be  after  ye  in  some  shape.  You  got  this  this 
mornin'  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"I  expect  you'd  sell  the  prop'ty  if  you  got  a  good 
chance,  wouldn't  ye?" 

"With  the  utmost  pleasure,"  said  John  emphatically. 

"Wa'al,  I've  got  a  notion  they'll  buy  it  of  ye,"  said 
David,  "if  it's  handled  right.  I  wouldn't  lease  it  if  it 
was  mine  an'  I  wanted  to  sell  it,  an'  yet,  in  the  long 
run,  you  might  git  more  out  of  it — an'  then  agin  you 
mightn't,"  he  added. 

"T  don't  know  anything  about  it,"  said  John,  putting 
his  handkerchief  to  his  mouth  in  a  fit  of  coughing. 
David  looked  at  him  with  a  frown. 


386  DAVID   HARUM 

"I  ben  aware  fer  some  time  that  the'  was  a  move- 
ment on  foot  in  your  direction,"  he  said.  "You  know 
I  told  ye  that  I'd  ben  int'ristid  in  the  oil  bus'nis  once 
on  a  time ;  an'  I  hain't  never  quite  lost  my  int'rist, 
though  it  hain't  ben  a  very  active  one  lately,  an'  some 
fellers  down  there  have  kep'  me  posted  some.  The'  's 
ben  oil  found  near  where  you're  located,  an'  the  pros- 
pectin'  points  your  way.  The  hull  thing  has  ben  kep' 
as  close  as  possible,  an'  the  holes  has  ben  plugged,  but 
the  oil  is  there  somewhere.  Now  it's  like  this  .  If  you 
lease  on  shares  an'  they  strike  the  oil  on  your  prop'ty, 
mebbe  it'll  bring  you  more  money ;  but  they  might 
strike,  an'  agin  they  mightn't.  Sometimes  you  git  a 
payin'  well  an'  a  dry  hole  only  a  few  hunderd  feet 
apart.  Nevertheless  they  want  to  drill  your  prop'ty. 
I  know  who  the  parties  is.  These  fellers  that  wrote 
this  letter  are  simply  actin'  for  'em." 

The  speaker  was  interrupted  by  another  fit  of  cough- 
ing, which  left  the  sufferer  very  red  in  the  face,  and 
elicited  from  him  the  word  which  is  always  greeted 
with  laughter  in  a  theater. 

"Say,"  said  David,  after  a  moment,  in  which  he 
looked  anxiously  at  his  companion,  "I  don't  like  that 
cough  o'  yourn." 

"I  don't  thoroughly  enjoy  it  myself,"  was  the  re- 
joinder. 

"Seems  to  be  kind  o'  growin'  on  ye,  don't  it1?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  John. 

"I  was  talkin'  with  Doc  Hayes  about  ye,"  said 
David,  "an'  he  allowed  you'd  ought  to  have  your  shoes 
off  an'  run  loose  a  spell." 

John  smiled  a  little,  but  did  not  reply. 

"Spoke  to  you  about  it,  didn't  he?  "  continued  David. 


DAVID   HARUM  387 

"Yes." 

"An'  you  told  him  you  couldn't  git  away?" 

"Yes." 

"Didn't  tell  him  you  wouldn't  go  if  you  could,  did 
ye?" 

"I  only  told  him  I  couldn't  go,"  said  John. 

David  sat  for  a  moment  thoughtfully  tapping  the 
desk  with  his  eyeglasses,  and  then  said  with  his  char- 
acteristic chuckle  : 

"I  had  a  letter  f  m  Chet  Timson  yestid'y." 

John  looked  up  at  him,  failing  to  see  the  connection. 

"Yes,"  said  David.  "He's  out  fer  a  job,  an'  the  way 
he  writes  I  guess  the  dander's  putty  well  out  of  him. 
I  reckon  the'  hain't  ben  nothin'  much  but  hay  in  his 
manger  fer  quite  a  spell,"  remarked  Mr.  Harum. 

"H'm ! "  said  John,  raising  his  brows,  conscious  of  a 
humane  but  very  faint  interest  in  Mr.  Timson's  affairs. 
Mr.  Harum  got  out  a  cigar,  and,  lighting  it,  gave  a  puff 
or  two,  and  continued  with  what  struck  the  younger 
man  as  a  perfectly  irrelevant  question.  It  really  seemed 
to  him  as  if  his  senior  were  making  conversation. 

"How's  Peleg  doin'  these  days?"  was  the  query. 

"Very  well,"  was  the  reply. 

"C'n  do  'most  anythin'  't's  nec'sary,  can't  he?" 

A  brief  interruption  followed  upon  the  entrance  of 
a  man,  who,  after  saying  good-morning,  laid  a  note  on 
David's  desk,  asking  for  the  money  on  it.  Mr.  Harum 
handed  it  back,  indicating  John  with  a  motion  of  his 
thumb. 

The  latter  took  it,  looked  at  the  face  and  back, 
marked  his  initials  on  it  with  a  pencil,  and  the  man 
went  out  to  the  counter. 

"If  you  was  fixed  so't  you  could  git  away  fer  a  spell," 
26 


388  DAVID   HARUM 

said  David  a  moment  or  two  after  the  customer's  de- 
parture, "where  would  you  like  to  go?  " 

"I  have  not  thought  about  it,"  said  John  rather  list- 
lessly. 

"  Wa'al,  s'pose  you  think  about  it  a  little  now,  if  you 
hain't  got  no  pressin'  engagement.  Bus'nis  don't  seem 
to  be  very  rushin'  this  mornin'." 

"Why?  "said  John. 

"Because,"  said  David  impressively,  "you're  goin' 
somewhere  right  off,  quick  's  you  c'n  git  ready,  an'  you 
may  's  well  be  makin'  up  your  mind  where." 

John  looked  up  in  surprise.  "I  don't  want  to  go 
away,"  he  said,  "and  if  I  did,  how  could  I  leave  the 
office?" 

"No,"  responded  Mr.  Harum,  "you  don't  want  to 
make  a  move  of  any  kind  that  you  don't  actually  have 
to,  an'  that's  the  reason  fer  makin'  one.  F'm  what  the 
doc  said,  an'  f  m  what  I  c'n  see,  you  got  to  git  out  o' 
this  dum'd  climate,"  waving  his  hand  toward  the  win- 
dow, against  which  the  sleet  was  beating,  "fer  a  spell ; 
an'  as  fur  's  the  office  goes,  Chet  Timson  'd  be  tickled 
to  death  to  come  on  an'  help  out  while  you're  away, 
an'  I  guess  'mongst  us  we  c'n  mosey  along  some  gait.  I 
ain't  quite  to  the  bone-yard  yet  myself,"  he  added  with 
a  grin. 

The  younger  man  sat  for  a  moment  or  two  with  brows 
contracted,  and  pulling  thoughtfully  at  his  mustache. 

"There  is  that  matter,"  he  said,  pointing  to  the  letter 
on  the  desk. 

"Wa'al,"  said  David,  "the'  ain't  no  tearin'  hurry 
'bout  that ;  an'  anyway,  I  was  goin'  to  make  you  a 
suggestion  to  put  the  matter  into  my  hands  to  some 
extent." 


DAVID   HARUM  389 

"Will  you  take  it?"  said  John  quickly.  "That  is 
exactly  what  I  should  wish  in  any  case." 

"If  you  want  I  should,"  replied  Mr.  Harum.  "Would 
you  want  to  give  full  power  attorney,  or  jest  have  me 
say  't  I  was  instructed  to  act  for  ye  ?  " 

"I  think  a  better  way  would  be  to  put  the  property 
in  your  name  altogether,"  said  John.  "Don't  you  think 
so?" 

"Wa'al,"  said  David  thoughtfully,  after  a  moment, 
"I  hadn't  thought  of  that,  but  mebbe  I  could  handle 
the  matter  better  if  you  was  to  do  that.  I  know  the 
parties,  an'  if  the'  was  any  bluffin'  to  be  done  either 
side,  mebbe  it  would  be  better  if  they  thought  I  was 
playin'  my  own  hand." 

At  that  point  Peleg  appeared  and  asked  Mr.  Lenox 
a  question  which  took  the  latter  to  the  teller's  counter. 
David  sat  for  some  time  drumming  on  his  desk  with 
the  fingers  of  both  hands.  A  succession  of  violent 
coughs  came  from  the  front  room.  His  mouth  and 
brows  contracted  in  a  wince,  and  rising,  he  put  on  his 
coat  and  hat  and  went  slowly  out  of  the  bank. 


CHAPTER   XLV 

THE  Vaterland  was  advertised  to  sail  at  one  o'clock, 
and  it  wanted  but  fifteen  or  twenty  minutes  of  the 
hour.  After  assuring  himself  that  his  belongings  were 
all  together  in  his  state-room,  John  made  his  way  to 
the  upper  deck  and,  leaning  against  the  rail,  watched 
the  bustle  of  embarkation,  somewhat  interested  in  the 
people  standing  about,  among  whom  it  was  difficult  in 
instances  to  distinguish  the  passengers  from  those  who 
were  present  to  say  farewell.  Near  him  at  the  moment 
were  two  people,  apparently  man  and  wife,  of  middle 
age  and  rather  distinguished  appearance,  to  whom 
presently  approached,  with  some  evidence  of  hurry  and 
with  outstretched  hand,  a  very  well  dressed  and  pleas- 
ant looking  man. 

"Ah,  here  you  are,  Mrs.  Buggies,"  John  heard  him 
say  as  he  shook  hands. 

Then  followed  some  commonplaces  of  good  wishes 
and  farewells,  and  in  reply  to  a  question  which  John 
did  not  catch,  he  heard  the  lady  addressed  as  Mrs. 
Buggies  say,  "Oh,  didn't  you  see  her1?  We  left  her 
on  the  lower  deck  a  few  minutes  ago.  Ah,  here  she 
comes." 

The  man  turned  and  advanced  a  step  to  meet  the 
person  in  question.  John's  eyes  involuntarily  followed 
the  movement,  and  as  he  saw  her  approach  his  heart 


DAVID   HARUM  391 

contracted  sharply :  it  was  Mary  Blake.  He  turned 
away  quickly,  and  as  the  collar  of  his  ulster  was  about 
his  face,  for  the  air  of  the  January  day  was  very  keen, 
he  thought  that  she  had  not  recognized  him.  A  moment 
later  he  went  aft  around  the  deck-house,  and  going 
forward  to  the  smoking-room,  seated  himself  therein, 
and  took  the  passenger  list  out  of  his  pocket.  He  had 
already  scanned  it  rather  cursorily,  having  but  the 
smallest  expectation  of  coming  upon  a  familiar  name, 
yet  feeling  sure  that,  had  hers  been  there,  it  could  not 
have  escaped  him.  Nevertheless,  he  now  ran  his  eye 
over  the  columns  with  eager  scrutiny,  and  the  hands 
which  held  the  paper  shook  a  little. 

There  was  no  name  in  the  least  like  Blake.  It  oc- 
curred to  him  that  by  some  chance  or  error  hers  might 
have  been  omitted,  when  his  eye  caught  the  following  : 

William  Ruggles New  York. 

Mrs.  Buggies "         " 

Mrs.  Edward  Euggles  ....         "         " 

It  was  plain  to  him  then.  She  was  obviously  traveling 
with  the  people  whom  she  had  just  joined  on  deck,  and 
it  was  equally  plain  that  she  was  Mrs.  Edward  Ruggles. 

When  he  looked  up  the  ship  was  out  in  the  river. 


CHAPTER   XLVI 

JOHN  had  been  late  in  applying  for  his  passage,  and  in 
consequence,  the  ship  being  very  full,  had  had  to  take 
what  berth  he  could  get,  which  happened  to  be  in  the 
second  cabin.  The  occupants  of  these  quarters,  how- 
ever, were  not  rated  as  second-class  passengers.  The 
Vaterland  took  none  such  on  her  outward  voyages,  and 
all  were  on  the  same  footing  as  to  the  fare  and  the 
freedom  of  the  ship.  The  captain  and  the  orchestra 
appeared  at  dinner  in  the  second  saloon  on  alternate 
nights,  and  the  only  disadvantage  in  the  location  was 
that  it  was  very  far  aft,  unless  it  could  be  considered  a 
drawback  that  the  furnishings  were  of  plain  wood  and 
plush  instead  of  carving,  gilding,  and  stamped  leather. 
In  fact,  as  the  voyage  proceeded,  our  friend  decided 
that  the  after-deck  was  pleasanter  than  the  one  amid- 
ships, and  the  cozy  second-class  smoking-room  more 
agreeable  than  the  large  and  gorgeous  one  forward. 

Consequently,  for  a  while  he  rarely  went  across  the 
bridge  which  spanned  the  opening  between  the  two 
decks.  It  may  be  that  he  had  a  certain  amount  of 
reluctance  to  encounter  Mrs.  Edward  Ruggles. 

The  roof  of  the  second  cabin  deck-house  was,  when 
there  was  not  too  much  wind,  a  favorite  place  with  him. 


DAVID   HARUM 


393 


It  was  not  much  frequented,  as  most  of  those  who  spent 
their  time  on  deck  apparently  preferred  a  place  nearer 
amidships.  He  was  sitting  there  on  the  morning  of  the 
fifth  day  out,  looking  idly  over  the  sea,  with  an  occa- 
sional glance  at  the  people  who  were  walking  on  the 
promenade-deck  below,  or  leaning  on  the  rail  which 
bounded  it.  He.  turned  at  a  slight  sound  behind  him, 
and  rose  with  his  hat  in  his  hand.  The  flush  in  his 
face,  as  he  took  the  hand  which  was  offered  him,  re- 
flected the  color  in  the  face  of  the  owner,  but  the  gray- 
ish brown  eyes,  which  he  remembered  so  well,  looked 
into  his  a  little  curi- 
ously, perhaps,  but 
frankly  and  kindly. 
She  was  the  first  to 
speak. 

"How  do  you   do, 
Mr.  Lenox  ?  "  she  said. 

"How     do 
you  do,  Mrs. 
Buggies?" 
said       John, 
throwing  up 
his    hand 
as,  at  the 
moment 
of  his  re- 


of     wind 

blew  the  cape  of  his  mackintosh  over  his  head.  They 
both  laughed  a  little  (this  was  their  greeting  after 
nearly  six  years),  and  sat  down. 

"What  a  nice  place  ! "  she  said,  looking  about  her. 


394  DAVID  HARUM 

"Yes,"  said  John ;  "I  sit  here  a  good  deal  when  it 
isn't  too  windy." 

"I  have  been  wondering  why  I  did  not  get  a  sight 
of  you,"  she  said.  "I  saw  your  name  in  the  passenger 
list.  Have  you  been  ill?" 

"I'm  in  the  second  cabin,"  he  said,  smiling. 

She  looked  at  him  a  little  incredulously,  and  he 
explained. 

"Ah,  yes,"  she  said,  "I  saw  your  name,  but  as  you  did 
not  appear  in  the  dining-saloon,  I  thought  you  must 
either  be  ill  or  that  you  did  not  sail.  Did  you  know 
that  I  was  on  board? "  she  asked. 

It  was  rather  an  embarrassing  question. 

"I  have  been  intending,"  he  replied  rather  lamely, 
"to  make  myself  known  to  you — that  is,  to — well,  make 
my  presence  on  board  known  to  you.  I  got  just  a 
glimpse  of  you  before  we  sailed,  when  you  came  up  to 
speak  to  a  man  who  had  been  saying  good-by  to  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Buggies.  I  heard  him  speak  their  name,  and 
looking  over  the  passenger  list  I  identified  you  as 
Mrs.  Edward  Ruggles." 

"Ah,"  she  said,  looking  away  for  an  instant,  "I  did 
not  know  that  you  had  seen  me,  and  I  wondered 
how  you  came  to  address  me  as  Mrs.  Ruggles  just 
now." 

"That  was  how,"  said  John ;  and  then,  after  a  mo- 
ment, "it  seems  rather  odd,  doesn't  it,  that  we  should 
be  renewing  an  acquaintance  on  an  ocean  steamer  as 
we  did  once  before,  so  many  years  ago?  and  that  the 
first  bit  of  intelligence  that  I  have  had  of  you  in  all  the 
years  since  I  saw  you  last  should  come  to  me  through 
the  passenger  list  ?  " 

"Did  you  ever  try  to  get  any?"  she  asked.     "I  have 


DAVID   HARUM  395 

always  thought  it  very  strange  that  we  should  never 
have  heard  anything  about  you." 

"I  went  to  the  house  once,  some  weeks  after  you  had 
gone/'  said  John,  "but  the  man  in  charge  was  out,  and 
the  maid  could  tell  me  nothing." 

"A  note  I  wrote  you  at  the  time  of  your  father's 
death,"  she  said,  "we  found  in  my  small  nephew's  over- 
coat pocket  after  we  had  been  some  time  in  California ; 
but  I  wrote  a  second  one  before  we  left  New  York, 
telling  you  of  our  intended  departure,  and  where  we 
were  going." 

"I  never  received  it,"  he  said.  Neither  spoke  for  a 
while,  and  then : 

"Tell  me  of  your  sister  and  brother-in-law,"  he  said. 

"My  sister  is  at  present  living  in  Cambridge,  where 
Jack  is  at  college,"  was  the  reply  ;  "but  poor  Julius 
died  two  years  ago." 

"Ah,"  said  John,  "I  am  grieved  to  hear  of  Mr.  Car- 
ling's  death.  I  liked  him  very  much." 

"He  liked  you  very  much,"  she  said,  "and  often 
spoke  of  you." 

There  was  another  period  of  silence,  so  long,  indeed, 
as  to  be  somewhat  embarrassing.  None  of  the  thoughts 
which  followed  each  other  in  John's  mind  was  of  the 
sort  which  he  felt  like  broaching.  He  realized  that 
the  situation  was  becoming  awkward,  and  that  con- 
sciousness added  to  the  confusion  of  his  ideas.  But  if 
his  companion  shared  his  embarrassment,  neither  her 
face  nor  her  manner  betrayed  it  as  at  last  she  said, 
turning  and  looking  frankly  at  him  : 

"You  seem  very  little  changed.  Tell  me'  about  your- 
self. Tell  me  something  of  your  life  in  the  last  six 
years." 


396  DAVID  HARUM 

During  the  rest  of  the  voyage  they  were  together  for 
a  part  of  every  day,  sometimes  with  the  company  of 
Mrs.  William  Buggies,  but  more  often  without  it,  as 
her  husband  claimed  much  of  her  attention  and  rarely 
came  on  deck ;  and  John,  from  time  to  time,  gave  his 
companion  pretty  much  the  whole  history  of  his  later 
career.  But  with  regard  to  her  own  life,  and,  as  he 
noticed,  especially  the  two  years  since  the  death  of  her 
brother-in-law,  she  was  distinctly  reticent.  She  never 
spoke  of  her  marriage  or  her  husband,  and  after  one  or 
two  faintly  tentative  allusions,  John  forbore  to  touch 
upon  those  subjects,  and  was  driven  to  conclude  that 
her  experience  had  not  been  a  happy  one.  Indeed,  in 
their  intercourse  there  were  times  when  she  appeared 
distrait  and  even  moody  ;  but  on  the  whole  she  seemed 
to  him  to  be  just  as  he  had  known  and  loved  her  years 
ago  ;  and  all  the  feeling  that  he  had  had  for  her  then 
broke  forth  afresh  in  spite  of  himself— in  spite  of  the 
fact  that,  as  he  told  himself,  it  was  more  hopeless  than 
ever  :  absolutely  so,  indeed. 

It  was  the  last  night  of  their  voyage  together.  The 
Ruggleses  were  to  leave  the  ship  the  next  morning  at 
Algiers,  where  they  intended  to  remain  for  some  time. 

"Would  you  mind  going  to  the  after-deck?"  he 
asked.  "These  people  walking  about  fidget  me,"  he 
added  rather  irritably. 

She  rose,  and  they  made  their  way  aft.  John  drew 
a  couple  of  chairs  near  to  the  rail.  "I  don't  care  to 
sit  down  for  the  present,"  she  said,  and  they  stood  look- 
ing out  at  sea  for  a  while  in  silence. 

"Do  you  remember,"  said  John  at  last,  "a  night  six 
years  ago  when  we  stood  together,  at  the  end  of  the 
voyage,  leaning  over  the  rail  like  this?" 


DAVID   HARUM  397 

"Yes/'  she  said. 

"Does  this  remind  you  of  it?"  he  asked. 

"I  was  thinking  of  it,"  she  said. 

"Do  you  remember  the  last  night  I  was  at  your 
house  ? "  he  asked,  looking  straight  out  over  the  moon- 
lit water. 

"Yes,"  she  said  again. 

"Did  you  know  that  night  what  was  in  my  heart  to 
say  to  you!" 

There  was  no  answer. 

"May  I  tell  you  now? "  he  asked,  giving  a  side  glance 
at  her  profile,  which  in  the  moonlight  showed  very 
white. 

"Do  you  think  you  ought?"  she  answered  in  a  low 
voice,  "or  that  I  ought  to  listen  to  you?" 

"I  know,"  he  exclaimed.  "You  think  that  as  a  mar- 
ried woman  you  should  not  listen,  and  that  knowing 
you  to  be  one  I  should  not  speak.  If  it  were  to  ask 
anything  of  you  I  would  not.  It  is  for  the  first  and  last 
time.  To-morrow  we  part  again,  and  for  all  time,  I 
suppose.  I  have  carried  the  words  that  were  on  my 
lips  that  night  all  these  years  in  my  heart.  I  know  I 
can  have  no  response — I  expect  none ;  but  it  cannot 
harm  you  if  I  tell  you  that  I  loved  you  then,  and 
have—" 

She  put  up  her  hand  in  protest. 

"You  must  not  go  on,  Mr.  Lenox,"  she  said,  turning 
to  him,  "and  I  must  leave  you." 

"Are  you  very  angry  with  me?"  he  asked  humbly. 

She  turned  her  face  to  the  sea  again  and  gave  a  sad 
little  laugh. 

"Not  so  much  as  I  ought  to  be,"  she  answered  ;  "but 
you  yourself  have  given  the  reason  why  you  should  not 


398  DAVID   HARUM 

say  such  things,  and  why  I  should  not  listen,  and  why 
I  ought  to  say  good-night." 

"Ah,  yes,"  he  said  bitterly  ;  "of  course  you  are  right, 
and  this  is  to  be  the  end." 

She  turned  and  looked  at  him  for  a  moment.  "You 
will  never  again  speak  to  me  as  you  have  to-night,  will 
you  ?  "  she  asked. 

"I  should  not  have  said  what  I  did  had  I  not  thought 
I  should  never  see  you  again  after  to-morrow,"  said 
John,  "and  I  am  not  likely  to  do  that,  am  I?" 

"If  I  could  be  sure,"  she  said  hesitatingly,  and  as  if 
to  herself. 

"Well,"  said  John  eagerly.  She  stood  with  her  eyes 
downcast  for  a  moment,  one  hand  resting  on  the  rail, 
and  then  she  looked  up. 

"We  expect  to  stay  in  Algiers  about  two  months," 
she  said,  "and  then  we  are  going  to  Naples  to  visit 
some  friends  for  a  few  days,  about  the  time  you  told 
me  you  thought  you  might  be  there.  Perhaps  it  would 
be  better  if  we  said  good-by  to-night ;  but  if  after  we 
get  home  you  are  to  spend  your  days  in  Homeville  and 
I  mine  in  New  York,  we  shall  not  be  likely  to  meet, 
and,  except  on  this  side  of  the  ocean,  we  may,  as  you 
say,  never  see  each  other  again.  So,  if  you  wish,  you 
may  come  to  see  me  in  Naples  if  you  happen  to  be 
there  when  we  are.  I  am  sure  after  to-night  that  I 
may  trust  you,  may  I  not?  But,"  she  added,  "per- 
haps you  would  not  care.  I  am  treating  you  very 
frankly ;  but  from  your  standpoint  you  would  expect 
or  excuse  more  frankness  than  if  I  were  a  young 
girl." 

"I  care  very  much,"  he  declared,  "and  it  will  be  a 
happiness  to  me  to  see  you  on  any  footing,  and  you 


DAVID   HARUM  399 

may  trust  me  never  to  break  bounds  again."  She 
made  a  motion  as  if  to  depart. 

"Don't  go  just  yet,"  he  said  pleadingly ;  "there  is 
now  no  reason  why  you  should  for  a  while,  is  there? 
Let  us  sit  here  in  this  gorgeous  night  a  little  longer, 
and  let  me  smoke  a  cigar." 

At  the  moment  he  was  undergoing  a  revulsion  of 
feeling.  His  state  of  mind  was  like  that  of  an  improvi- 
dent debtor  who,  while  knowing  that  the  note  must  be 
paid  some  time,  does  not  quite  realize  it  for  a  while 
after  an  extension.  At  last  the  cigar  was  finished. 
There  had  been  but  little  said  between  them. 

"I  really  must  go,"  she  said,  and  he  walked  with  her 
across  the  hanging  bridge  and  down  the  deck  to  the 
gangway  door. 

"Where  shall  I  address  you  to  let  you  know  when 
we  shall  be  in  Naples  ?  "  she  asked  as  they  were  about 
to  separate. 

"Care  of  Cook  and  Son,"  he  said.  "You  will  find  the 
address  in  Baedeker." 

He  saw  her  the  next  morning  long  enough  for  a 
touch  of  the  hand  and  a  good-by  before  the  bobbing, 
tubby  little  boat  with  its  Arab  crew  took  the  Euggleses 
on  board. 


CHAPTEK  XLVII 

How  John  Lenox  tried  to  kill  time  during  the  following 
two  months,  and  how  time  retaliated  during  the  process, 
it  is  needless  to  set  forth.  It  may  not,  however,  be  wholly 
irrelevant  to  note  that  his  cough  had  gradually  disap- 
peared, and  that  his  appetite  had  become  good  enough 
to  carry  him  through  the  average  table  d'hote  dinner. 
On  the  morning  after  his  arrival  at  Naples  he  found  a 
cable  dispatch  at  the  office  of  Cook  and  Son,  as  follows  : 
"Sixty  cash,  forty  stock.  Stock  good.  Harum." 

"God  bless  the  dear  old  boy  ! "  said  John  fervently. 
The  Pennsylvania  property  was  sold  at  last ;  and  if 
"stock  good"  was  true,  the  dispatch  informed  him  that 
he  was,  if  not  a  rich  man  for  modern  days,  still,  as 
David  would  have  put  it,  "wuth  consid'able."  No 
man,  I  take  it,  is  very  likely  to  receive  such  a  piece  of 
news  without  satisfaction  ;  but  if  our  friend's  first  sen- 
sation was  one  of  gratification,  the  thought  which  fol- 
lowed had  a  drop  of  bitterness  in  it.  "If  I  could  only 
have  had  it  before ! "  he  said  to  himself ;  and  indeed 
many  of  the  disappointments  of  life,  if  not  the  greater 
part,  come  because  events  are  unpunctual.  They  have 
a  way  of  arriving  sometimes  too  early,  or,  worse,  too 
late. 

Another  circumstance  detracted  from  his  satisfaction  : 
a  note  he  expected  did  not  appear  among  the  other 
communications  waiting  him  at  the  bankers,  a?id  his 
mind  was  occupied  for  the  while  with  various  conjec- 
tures as  to  the  reason,  none  of  which  was  satisfactory. 
Perhaps  she  had  changed  her  mind.  Perhaps — a  score 


DAVID   HARUM  401 

of  things  !  Well,  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  be  as 
patient  as  possible  and  await  events.  He  remembered 
that  she  had  said  she  was  to  visit  some  friends  by  the 
name  of  Hartleigh,  and  she  had  told  him  the  name  of 
their  villa,  but  for  the  moment  he  did  not  remember  it. 
In  any  case  he  did  not  know  the  Hartleighs,  and  if  she 
had  changed  her  mind — as  was  possibly  indicated  by 
the  omission  to  send  him  word— well —  !  He  shrugged 
his  shoulders,  mechanically  lighted  a  cigarette,  and 
strolled  down  and  out  of  the  Piazza  Martiri  and  across 
to  the  Largo  della  Vittoria.  He  had  a  half-formed 
idea  of  walking  back  through  the  Villa  Nazionale, 
spending  an  hour  at  the  Aquarium,  and  then  to  his 
hotel  for  luncheon.  It  occurred  to  him  at  the  moment 
that  there  was  a  steamer  from  Genoa  on  the  Monday 
following,  that  he  was  tired  of  wandering  about  aim- 
lessly and  alone,  and  that  there  was  really  no  reason 
why  he  should  not  take  the  said  steamer  and  go  home. 
Occupied  with  these  reflections,  he  absently  observed, 
just  opposite  to  him  across  the  way,  a  pair  of  large  bay 
horses  in  front  of  a  handsome  landau.  A  coachman  in 
livery  was  on  the  box,  and  a  small  footman,  very  much 
coated  and  silk-hatted,  was  standing  about ;  and,  as  he 
looked,  two  ladies  came  out  of  the  arched  entrance  to 
the  court  of  the  building  before  which  the  equipage 
was  halted,  and  the  small  footman  sprang  to  the  car- 
riage door. 

One  of  the  ladies  was  a  stranger  to  him,  but  the  other 
was  Mrs.  William  Euggles ;  and  John,  seeing  that  he 
had  been  recognized,  at  once  crossed  over  to  the  car- 
riage ;  and  presently,  having  accepted  an  invitation  to 
breakfast,  found  himself  sitting  opposite  them  on  his 
way  to  the  Villa  Violante.  The  conversation  during 


402  DAVID   HARUM 

the  drive  up  to  the  Vomero  need  not  be  detailed.  Mrs. 
Hartleigh  arrived  at  the  opinion  that  our  friend  was 
rather  a  dull  person.  Mrs.  Kuggles,  as  he  had  found 
out,  was  usually  rather  taciturn.  Neither  is  it  necessary 
to  say  very  much  of  the  breakfast,  nor  of  the  people 
assembled. 

It  appeared  that  several  guests  had  departed  the 
previous  day,  and  the  people  at  table  consisted  only  of 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Kuggles,  Mary,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hartleigh 
and  their  two  daughters,  and  John,  whose  conversation 
was  mostly  with  his  host,  and  was  rather  desultory.  In 
fact,  there  was  during  the  meal  a  perceptible  air  of 
something  like  disquietude.  Mr.  Ruggles  in  particular 
said  almost  nothing,  and  wore  an  appearance  of  what 
seemed  like  anxiety.  Once  he  turned  to  his  host: 
"When  ought  I  to  get  an  answer  to  that  cable,  Hart- 
leigh1? to-day,  do  you  think?" 

"Yes,  I  should  say  so  without  doubt,"  was  the  reply, 
"if  it's  answered  promptly,  and  in  fact  there's  plenty 
of  time.  Remember  that  we  are  about  six  hours  earlier 
than  New  York  by  the  clock,  and  it's  only  about  seven 
in  the  morning  over  there." 

Coffee  was  served  on  the  balustraded  platform  of  the 
flight  of  marble  steps  leading  down  to  the  grounds 
below. 

"Mary,"  said  Mrs.  Hartleigh,  when  cigarettes  had 
been  offered,  "don't  you  want  to  show  Mr.  Lenox  some- 
thing of  La  Violante?  " 

"I  shall  take  you  to  my  favorite  place,"  she  said,  as 
they  descended  the  steps  together. 

The  southern  front  of  the  grounds  of  the  Villa 
Violante  is  bounded  and  upheld  by  a  wall  of  tufa  fifty 


DAVID   HARUM  403 

feet  in  height  and  some  four  hundred  feet  long.  About 
midway  of  its  length  a  semicircular  bench  of  marble, 
with  a  rail,  is  built  out  over  one  of  the  buttresses. 
From  this  point  is  visible  the  whole  bay  and  harbor  of 
Naples,  and  about  one  third  of  the  city  lies  in  sight, 
five  hundred  feet  below.  To  the  left  one  sees  Vesuvius 
and  the  Sant'  Angelo  chain,  which  the  eye  follows  to 
Sorrento.  Straight  out  in  front  stands  Capri,  and  to 
the  right  the  curve  of  the  bay,  ending  at  Posilipo. 
The  two,  John  and  his  companion,  halted  near  the 
bench,  and  leaned  upon  the  parapet  of  the  wall  for  a 
while  in  silence.  From  the  streets  below  rose  no  rum- 
ble of  traffic,  no  sound  of  hoof  or  wheel ;  but  up  through 
three  thousand  feet  of  distance  came  from  here  and 
there  the  voices  of  street- venders,  the  clang  of  a  bell, 
and  ever  and  anon  the  pathetic  supplication  of  a 
donkey.  Absolute  quiet  prevailed  where  they  stood, 
save  for  these  upcoming  sounds.  The  April  sun,  deli- 
ciously  warm,  drew  a  smoky  odor  from 
the  hedge  of  box  with  which  the  parapet  "  -,  „__:> \"! 
walk  was  bordered,  in  and  out  of  which  f  ^A, 
darted  small  green  lizards  with  the  quick- 
ness of  little  fishes. 

John  drew  a  long  breath. 

"I  don't  believe  there  is  another  such    '^^^ 
view  in  the  world,"  he  said.     "I  do  not 
wonder    that    this    is 
your    favorite    spot." 

"Yes,"  she 
said, "  you  should 
see  the  grounds 
—  the  whole  ^z 
place  is  superb 
27 


404  DAVID   HARUM 

— but  this  is  the  glory  of  it  all,  and  I  have  brought  you 
straight  here  because  I  wanted  to  see  it  with  you,  and 
this  may  be  the  only  opportunity." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked  apprehensively. 

"You  heard  Mr.  Kuggles's  question  about  the  cable 
dispatch  ? "  she  said. 

"Yes." 

"Well,"  she  said,  "our  plans  have  been  very  much 
upset  by  some  things  he  has  heard  from  home.  We 
came  on  from  Algiers  ten  days  earlier  than  we  had  in- 
tended, and  if  the  reply  to  Mr.  Ruggles's  cable  is  unfa- 
vorable, we  are  likely  to  depart  for  Genoa  to-morrow 
and  take  the  steamer  for  home  on  Monday.  The  reason 
why  I  did  not  send  a  note  to  your  bankers,"  she  added, 
"was  that  we  came  on  the  same  boat  that  I  intended  to 
write  by ;  and  Mr.  Hartleigh's  man  has  inquired  for 
you  every  day  at  Cook's  so  that  Mr.  Hartleigh  might 
know  of  your  coming  and  call  upon  you." 

John  gave  a  little  exclamation  of  dismay.  Her  face 
was  very  still  as  she  gazed  out  over  the  sea  with  half- 
closed  eyes.  He  caught  the  scent  of  the  violets  in  the 
bosom  of  her  white  dress. 

"Let  us  sit  down,"  she  said  at  last.  "I  have  some- 
thing I  wish  to  say  to  you." 

He  made  no  rejoinder  as  they  seated  themselves,  and 
during  the  moment  or  two  of  silence  in  which  she 
seemed  to  be  meditating  how  to  begin,  he  sat  bending 
forward,  holding  his  stick  with  both  hands  between  his 
knees,  absently  prodding  holes  in  the  gravel. 

"I  think,"  she  began,  "that  if  I  did  not  believe  the 
chances  were  for  our  going  to-morrow,  I  would  not  say 
it  to-day."  John  bit  his  lip  and  gave  the  gravel  a 
more  vigorous  punch.  "But  I  have  felt  that  I  must 


DAVID   HARUM  405 

say  it  to  you  some  time  before  we  saw  the  last  of  each 
other,  whenever  that  time  should  be." 

"Is  it  anything  about  what  happened  on  board  ship  ?  " 
he  asked  in  a  low  voice. 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  "it  concerns  all  that  took  place 
on  board  ship,  or  nearly  all,  and  I  have  had  many  mis- 
givings about  it.  I  am  afraid  that  I  did  wrong,  and  I 
am  afraid,  too,  that  in  your  secret  heart  you  would 
admit  it." 

"No,  never!"  he  exclaimed.  "If  there  was  any 
wrong  done,  it  was  wholly  of  my  own  doing.  I  was 
alone  to  blame.  I  ought  to  have  remembered  that 
you  were  married,  and  perhaps — yes,  I  did  remember 
it  in  a  way,  but  I  could  not  realize  it.  I  had  never 
seen  or  heard  of  your  husband,  or  heard  of  your 
marriage.  He  was  a  perfectly  unreal  person  to  me, 
and  you— you  seemed  only  the  Mary  Blake  that  I 
had  known,  and  as  I  had  known  you.  I  said  what  I 
did  that  night  upon  an  impulse  which  was  as  unpre- 
meditated as  it  was  sudden.  I  don't  see  how  you  were 
wrong.  You  couldn't  have  foreseen  what  took  place 
-and-" 

"Have  you  not  been  sorry  for  what  took  place?" 
she  asked,  with  her  eyes  on  the  ground.  "Have  you 
not  thought  the  less  of  me  since  ?  " 

He  turned  and  looked  at  her.  There  was  a  little 
smile  upon  her  lips  and  on  her  downcast  eyes. 

"No,  by  Heaven!"  he  exclaimed  desperately,  "I 
have  not,  and  I  am  not  sorry.  Whether  I  ought  to 
have  said  what  I  did  or  not,  it  was  true,  and  I  wanted 
you  to  know — " 

He  broke  off  as  she  turned  to  him  with  a  smile  and 
a  blush.  The  smile  was  almost  a  laugh. 


406 


DAVID   HARUM 


"But,  John/'  she  said,  "I  am  not  Mrs.  Edward  Rug- 
gles.     I  am  Mary  Blake." 

The  parapet  was  fifty  feet  above  the  terrace.     The 
hedge  of  box  was  an  impervious  screen. 

Well,  and  then,  after  a  little  of  that  sort  of  thing, 
they  both  began  hurriedly  to  admire  the  view  again, 


for  some  one  was  coming.  But  it  was  only  one  of  the 
gardeners,  who  did  not  understand  English  ;  and  con- 
fidence being  once  more  restored,  they  fell  to  discuss- 
ing— everything. 

"Do  you  think  you  could  live  in  Homeville,  dear?" 
asked  John  after  a  while. 

"I  suppose  I  shall  have  to,  shall  I  not?"  said  Mary. 
"And  are  you,  too,  really  happy,  John?" 


DAVID   HARUM  407 

John  instantly  proved  to  her  that  he  was.  "But  it 
almost  makes  me  unhappy,"  he  added,  "to  think  how 
nearly  we  have  missed  each  other.  If  I  had  only 
known  in  the  beginning  that  you  were  not  Mrs.  Edward 
Buggies ! " 

Mary  laughed  joyously.  The  mistake  which  a  mo- 
ment before  had  seemed  almost  tragic  now  appeared 
delightfully  funny. 

"The  explanation  is  painfully  simple/'  she  answered. 
"Mrs.  Edward  Euggles— the  real  one— did  expect  to 
come  on  the  Vaterland,  whereas  I  did  not.  But  the 
day  before  the  steamer  sailed  she  was  summoned  to 
Andover  by  the  serious  illness  of  her  only  son,  who  is 
at  school  there.  I  took  her  ticket,  got  ready  overnight 
—I  like  to  start  on  these  unpremeditated  journeys — 
and  here  I  am."  John  put  his  arm  about  her  to  make 
sure  of  this,  and  kept  it  there— lest  he  should  forget. 
"When  we  met  on  the  steamer  and  I  saw  the  error  you 
had  made  I  was  tempted— and  yielded— to  let  you  go 
on  uncorrected.  But,"  she  added,  looking  lovingly  up 
into  John's  eyes,  "I'm  glad  you  found  out  your  mis- 
take at  last." 


CHAPTER   XLVIII 

A  FORTNIGHT  later  Mr.  Harum  sat  at  his  desk  in  the 
office  of  Harum  &  Co.  There  were  a  number  of  letters 
for  him,  but  the  one  he  opened  first  bore  a  foreign 
stamp,  and  was  postmarked  "Napoli."  That  he  was 
deeply  interested  in  the  contents  of  this  epistle  was 
manifest  from  the  beginning,  not  only  from  the  expres- 
sion of  his  face,  but  from  the  frequent  "wa'al,  wa'als" 
which  were  elicited  as  he  went  on ;  but  interest  grew 
into  excitement  as  he  neared  the  close,  and  culminated 
as  he  read  the  last  few  lines. 

"Scat  my  CATS ! "  he  cried,  and,  grabbing  his  hat 
and  the  letter,  he  bolted  out  of  the  back  door  in  the 
direction  of  the  house,  leaving  the  rest  of  his  corre- 
spondence to  be  digested— any  time. 


EPILOGUE 

I  MIGHT,  in  conclusion,  tell  how  John's  further  life  in 
Homeville  was  of  comparatively  short  duration ;  how 
David  died  of  injuries  received  in  a  runaway  accident  j 
how  John  found  himself  the  sole  executor  of  his  late 
partner's  estate,  and,  save  for  a  life  provision  for  Mrs. 
Bixbee,  the  only  legatee,  and  rich  enough  (if  indeed 
with  his  own  and  his  wife's  money  he  had  not  been  so 
before)  to  live  wherever  he  pleased.  But  as  heretofore 
I  have  confined  myself  strictly  to  facts,  I  am,  to  be  con- 
sistent, constrained  to  abide  by  them  now.  Indeed,  I 
am  too  conscientious  to  do  otherwise,  notwithstanding 
the  temptation  to  make  what  might  be  a  more  artistic 
ending  to  my  story.  David  is  not  only  living,  but  ap- 
pears almost  no  older  than  when  we  first  knew  him, 
and  is  still  just  as  likely  to  "git  goin' "  on  occasion. 
Even  "old  Jinny"  is  still  with  us,  though  her  master 
does  most  of  his  "joggin'  round"  behind  a  younger 
horse.  "Whatever  Mr.  Harum's  testamentary  inten- 
tions may  be,  or  even  whether  he  has  made  a  will  or 
not,  nobody  knows  but  himself  and  his  attorney.  Aunt 
Polly— well,  there  is  a  little  more  of  her  than  when  we 
first  made  her  acquaintance,  say  twenty  pounds. 

John  and  his  wife  live  in  a  house  which  they  built 
on  the  shore  of  the  lake.  It  is  a  settled  thing  that 
David  and  his  sister  dine  with  them  every  Sunday. 
Mrs.  Bixbee  at  first  looked  a  little  askance  at  the  wine 
on  the  table,  but  she  does  not  object  to  it  now.  Being 
a  "son  o'  temp'rence,"  she  has  never  been  induced  to 
taste  any  champagne,  but  on  one  occasion  she  was  per- 


410  DAVID   HARUM. 

suaded  to  take  the  smallest  sip  of  claret.  "Wa'al," 
she  remarked  with  a  wry  face,  "I  guess  the'  can't  be 
much  sin  or  danger  'n  drinkin'  anythin'  't  tastes  the 
way  that  does." 

She  and  Mrs.  Lenox  took  to  each  other  from  the  first, 
and  the  latter  has  quite  supplanted  (and  more)  Miss 
Claricy  (Mrs.  Elton)  with  David.  In  fact,  he  said  to 
our  friend  one  day  during  the  first  year  of  the  mar- 
riage, "Say,  John,  I  ain't  sure  but  what  we'll  have  to 
hitch  that  wife  o'  yourn  on  the  off  side." 

I  had  nearly  forgotten  one  person  whose  conversation 
has  yet  to  be  recorded  in  print,  but  which  is  considered 
very  interesting  by  at  least  four  people.  His  name  is 
David  Lenox. 

I  think  that's  all. 


THE   END 


DR.  BARTON'S  NEW  NOVEL. 
Pine  Knot. 

A  Story  of  Kentucky  Life.  By  WILLIAM  E.  BARTON,  author  of 
"A  Hero  in  Homespun."  Illustrated  by  F.  T.  Merrill,  i  zmo. 
Cloth,  $1.50. 

Three  years  ago  a  brilliant  and  already  distinguished  clergyman,  then  of 
Boston,  published  "A  Hero  in  Homespun,"  a  romance  of  unknown  types  and 
phases  of  life  in  the  mountains  of  Tennessee  and  Kentucky  during  the  civil  war. 
The  success  of  this  fresh  and  vigorous  romance  has  not  induced  the  author,  Dr. 
William  E.  Barton,  to  sacrifice  anything  to  hasty  production.  He  has  written 
no  other  novel  until  the  present  time,  when  Messrs.  D.  Appleton  and  Company 
are  able  to  announce  his  new  romance,  "  Pine  Knot,  a  Story  of  Kentucky  Life." 
Dr.  Barton  was  born  in  Sublette,  Illinois,  where  he  spent  his  first  twenty  years, 
but  he  gained  his  knowledge  of  the  mountain  folk  of  Kentucky  and  Tennessee 
by  immediate  association,  first  as  a  student  at  Berea  College  in  Kentucky  and 
afterward  as  a  missionary  in  the  mountains,  and  later  as  a  visitor  and  traveler 
through  the  most  unfrequented  parts.  Another  journey  in  the  mountains  was 
made  especially  in  the  interest  of  "Pine  Knot."  The  story  is  full  of  the 
atmosphere  of  the  quaint  mountain  life  with  its  wealth  of  amusing  peculiarities, 
and  it  also  has  a  historical  value,  since  it  pictures  conditions  attendant  upon  the 
antislavery  movement  and  the  days  of  the  war.  The  interest  of  a  treasure 
search  runs  through  the  tale,  since  the  author  has  adroitly  utilized  a  mountain 
legend  of  a  lost  mine.  "  Pine  Knot  "  is  a  romance  "racy  of  the  soil  "  in 
a  true  sense,  a  story  fresh,  strong,  and  absorbing  in  its  interest  throughout.  Of 
the  scenes  of  this  novel  the  author  has  said  :  "A  region  so  beautiful  in  its 
scenery  and  romantic  in  its  traditions  as  that  which  surrounds  the  Falls  of  the 
Cumberland  River  deserves  to  be  represented  in  literature.  The  plan  of  a  story 
embodying  these  traditions  and  dealing  with  the  lives  of  the  people  in  the  heroic 
period  of  their  history  has  been  maturing  in  my  mind  for  many  years,  during 
which  time  material  for  the  work  has  been  accumulating.  The  legend  of  the 
Swift  Silver  Mine  is  in  itself  so  interesting  as  to  require  little  shaping  at  the 
hands  of  the  story-teller ;  and  the  scheme  for  its  development  just  before  the 
war,  with  the  brilliant  visions  of  enormous  wealth  and  the  result,  are  matters 
of  record." 

SOME  PRESS  OPINIONS  OF  "A  HERO  IN  HOMESPUN." 

"Vigorous,  spirited,  truthful,  absorbing." — New  York  Critic. 

"  A  thoroughly  interesting,  red-blooded,  virile  story,  and  at  the  same  time 
a  historical  document  of  the  very  greatest  value." — The  Bookman. 

"  Will  be  read  with  keen  enjoyment."— New  York  Times. 

"  The  story  is  one  of  intense  interest." — Boston  Herald. 

"  Abounds  in  life  and  incident.  The  men  and  women  move  and  act 
spontaneously.  The  primitive  customs  and  usages  of  the  mountaineers  have 
been  carefully  pictured."— Philadelphia  Ledger. 

D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY,  NEW  YORK. 


"AN  EPIC  OF  THE  WEST/' 
The  Girl  at  the  Halfway  House. 

A   Romance   of  the   Plains.      By  E.  HOUGH,   author  of  "  The 

Story  of  the  Cowboy."      I2mo.      Cloth,  $1.50. 

The  author  of  "  The  Girl  at  the  Halfway  House,"  Mr.  E. 
Hough,  gained  general  recognition  by  his  remarkable  book,  "  The 
Story  of  the  Cowboy,"  published  by  D.  Appleton  and  Com- 
pany in  this  country,  and  also  published  in  England. 

"The  Girl  at  the  Halfway  House"  has  been  called  an 
American  epic  by  critics  who  have  read  the  manuscript.  The 
author  illustrates  the  strange  life  of  the  great  westward  movement 
which  became  so  marked  in  this  country  after  the  civil  war.  A 
dramatic  picture  of  a  battlefield,  which  has  been  compared  to 
scenes  in  "The  Red  Badge  of  Courage,"  opens  the  story.  After 
this  "Day  of  War,"  in  which  the  hero  and  heroine  first  meet, 
there  comes  "The  Day  of  the  Buffalo."  The  reader  follows 
the  course  of  the  hero  and  his  friend,  a  picturesque  old  army 
veteran,  to  the  frontier,  then  found  on  the  Western  plains.  The 
author,  than  whom  no  one  can  speak  with  fuller  knowledge, 
pictures  the  cowboy  on  his  native  range,  the  wild  life  of  the  buf- 
falo hunters,  the  coming  of  the  white-topped  emigrant  wagons, 
and  the  strange  days  of  the  early  land  booms.  Into  this  new 
world  comes  the  heroine,  whose  family  finally  settles  near  at  hand, 
illustrating  the  curious  phases  of  the  formation  of  a  prairie  home. 
The  third  part  of  the  story,  called  "The  Day  of  the  Cattle," 
sketches  the  wild  days  when  the  range  cattle  covered  the  plains 
and  the  cowboys  owned  the  towns.  The  fourth  part  of  the  story 
is  called  "The  Day  of  the  Plow,"  and  in  this  we  find  that  the 
buffalo  has  passed  from  the  adopted  country  of  hero  and  heroine, 
and  the  era  of  towns  and  land  booms  has  begun. 

Nothing  has  been  written  on  the  opening  of  the  West  to 
excel  this  romance  in  epic  quality,  and  its  historic  interest,  as  well 
as  its  freshness,  vividness,  and  absorbing  interest,  should  appeal 
to  every  American  reader. 

D.     APPLETON      AND      COMPANY,      NEW     YORK. 


By  ELLEN  THORNEYCROFT  FOWLER, 

JUST  PUBLISHED. 

The  Farringdons. 

A  Novel.     I2mo.     Cloth,  $1.50. 

"  A  most  readable  story  of  the  fortunes  of  several  interesting  people.  .  .  . 
A  plot  that  threads  its  way  through  the  story  reaches  a  conclusion  the  unex- 
pectedness of  which  adds  to  the  pleasure  that  the  reader  will  find  in  this 
romance.  "—Providence  News. 

"  Miss  Fowler  makes  her  own  audience,  which,  large  as  it  is  in  England, 
must  be  even  larger  in  this  country.  There  is  a  deeper  note  in  this  story 
than  any  she  has  yet  sounded.  .  .  .  '  The  Farringdons  '  is,  above  all  else, 
a  proclamation  to  the  world  that  the  religion  which  Christ  brought  to  hu- 
manity is  a  living  power,  undiminished  in  strength,  the  mainspring  of  the 
actions  and  aspirations  of  millions  of  Anglo-Saxons." — New  York  Mail  and 
Express. 

"  A  book  of  intense  interest."— Springfield  Union. 

"  Its  whole  atmosphere  is  that  of  a  June  morning.  ...  It  is  full  of  crisp 
and  original  dialogue,  and  beneath  all  the  persiflage  and  gossip  there  is  a 
strong  undercurrent  of  wholesome  and  high-minded  philosophy." — Chicago 
Tribune. 

"  Sparkling  dialogue,  careful  character  drawing,  and  admirable  descrip- 
tions are  all  here,  but  above  all  we  have  real  people,  and  leal  people  who 
are  interesting.  The  book  is  another  evidence  of  the  high  abilities  of  the 
writer." — Cincinnati  Times-Star. 

Concerning  Isabel  Carnaby. 

A  Novel.     New  edition,  with  Portrait  and   Biographical  Sketch  of  the 
Author.     I2mo.     Cloth,  $1.50 

"  No  one  who  reads  it  will  regret  it  or  forget  it." — Chicago  Tribune. 

"  For  brilliant  conversations,  epigrammatic  bits  of  philosophy,  keenness 
of  wit,  and  full  insight  into  human  nature,  '  Concerning  Isabel  Carnaby '  is 
a  remarkable  success.'1 — Boston  Transcript. 

"  An  excellent  novel,  clever  and  witty  enough  to  be  very  amusing,  and 
serious  enough  to  provide  much  food  for  thought."— London  Daily  Tele- 
graph. 

A  Double  Thread. 

A  Novel.     I2mo.     Cloth,  $1.50. 

"The  excellence  of  her  writing  makes  .  .  .  her  book  delightful  reading. 
She  is  genial  and  sympathetic  without  being  futile,  and  witty  without  being 
cynical." — Literature,  London. 


D.  APPLETON   AND   COMPANY,  NEW  YORK. 


D.  APPLETON  &   CO.'S  PUBLICATIONS. 


T  TNCLE  REMUS.  His  Songs  and  his  Sayings.  By 
JOEL  CHANDLER  HARRIS.  With  new  Preface  and  Revisions, 
and  112  Illustrations  by  A.  B.  Frost.  Library  Edition.  i2mo. 
Buckram,  gilt  top,  uncut,  $2.00.  Also,  Edition  de  luxe  of  the 
above,  limited  to  250  copies,  each  signed  by  the  author,  with 
the  full-page  cuts  mounted  on  India  paper.  8vo,  White  veK 
lum,  gilt  top,  $10.00. 

'  The  old  tales  of  the  plantation  have  never  been  told  as  Mr.  Harris  has  told  them. 
Each  narrative  is  to  the  point,  and  so  swift  in  its  action  upon  the  risibilities  of  the 
reader  that  one  almost  loses  consciousness  of  the  printed  page,  and  fancies  it  is  the 
voice  of  the  lovable  old  darky  himself  that  steals  across  the  senses  and  brings  mirth 
inextinguishable  as  it  comes;  .  .  .  and  Mr.  Frost's  drawings  are  so  supe  latuely  good, 
so  inexpressibly  funny,  that  they  promise  to  make  this  the  standard  edition  of  a  stand- 
ard book."— New  York  Tribune. 

"An  exquisite  volume,  full  of  good  illustrations,  •  nd  if  tl'ere  is  anybody  in  this 
country  who  doesn't  know  Mr.  Harris,  here  is  an  opportunity  to  make  his  acquaint- 
ance and  have  many  a  good  laugh." — New  York  Herald. 

"  There  is  but  one  '  Uncle  Remus,'  and  he  will  never  grow  old.  ...  It  was  a 
happy  thought,  that  of  marrying  the  work  of  Harrii  and  Frost." — Mew  York  Mail 


"  Nobody  could  possibly  have  done  this  work  better  than  Mr.  Frost,  whose  appre- 
ciation of  negro  life  fitted  him  especially  to  be  the  interpreter  of  Uncle  Remus,'  and 
whose  sense  of  the  humor  in  animal  life  makes  these  drawings  really  illustrations  in  the 
fullest  sense.  Mr.  Harris's  well-known  work  has  become  in  a  sense  a  classic,  and  this 
may  be  accepted  as  the  standard  edition.  "  —  Philadelphia  Times. 

"  A  book  which  became  a  classic  almost  as  soon  as  it  was  published.  .  .  .  Mr.  Frost 
has  never  done  anything  better  in  the  way  of  illustration,,  il  indeed  he  has  done  any- 
thing as  good."  —  Boston  Advertiser. 

"  We  pity  the  reader  who  has  not  yet  made  the  acquaintance  of  '  Uncle  Remus  ' 
and  his  charming  story.  .  .  .  Mr.  Harris  has  made  a  real  addition  to  literature  purely 
and  strikingly  American,  and  Mr.  Frost  has  aided  in  fixing  the  work  indelibly  on  the 
consciousness  of  the  American  reader."—  The  Churchman. 


The  old  fancies  of  the  old  negro,  dear  as  they  may  have  been  to  us  these  many 
s,  seem  to  gain  new  life  when  t  ' 

imagination."—  A^w  York  Home  Jo 


, 

years,  seem  to  gain  new  life  when  they  pppear  through  the  medium  of  Mr.  Frost's 
"  al. 


"  In  his  own  peculiar  field  '  Uncle  Remus'  has  no  rival.  The  book  has  become  a 
classic,  but  the  latest  edition  is  the  choice  one.  It  is  rarely  piven  to  an  author  to  see 
his  work  accompanied  by  pictures  so  closely  in  sympathy  with  his  text  "—San  Fran- 
cisco A  rgonaut. 

"  We  say  it  with  the  utmost  faith  that  there  is  not  an  artist  who  works  in  illustra- 
tion that  can  citch  the  attitude  and  expression,  the  slyness,  the  innate  depravity,  the 
eye  of  surprise,  obstinacy,  the  hang  of  the  head  or  the  kick  of  the  heels  of  the  mute  and 
the  brute  creation  as  Mr.  Frost  has  shown  to  us  here."—  Baltimore  Sun. 


New  York :    D.  APPLETON   &   CO.,  72  Fifth  Avenue. 


PftB 


